The Infrastructure of the Soul
by septithol
Summary: A mysterious foriegn wizard travels to England and causes chaos to BOTH sides of the war against light and darkness. Who is he, and what is he so desperate to have? How far will he go to get what he wants? PLEASE REVIEW! Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

1981

The young death eater stood sweating over a cauldron. He had not been in the service of the Dark Lord for more than a few weeks, but even that brief time was more than long enough to convince him that he might, perhaps, have been  mistaken in joining the service of Voldemort.

He had joined that service out of hatred, only to find that his hatred was not as strong as he thought it had been. Certainly not strong enough to stomach the things the Dark Lord had him do to innocents whom had never offended him. Although there were those that he did hate, his main emotions towards the vast majority of humanity consisted largely of indifference, mixed with a cynical contempt of sorts towards minds that were for the most part, of a caliber far below his own. Which, he increasingly had to admit to himself, also included the one he served. The Dark Lord's sole talents, if they could be called that, lay almost entirely in the ability to perform crude acts of violence and blasphemy. Not for him the subtle art of mixing herbs and minerals in refined proportions in a cauldron. Though he was eager enough to make use of the potions, he left their brewing to his betters.

Yes, he did think of himself as the Dark Lord's better. The Dark Lord, for all his power, was as stupid as everyone else the young Death Eater held in contempt. And the rewards he had been given, thus far, for his service to the Dark Lord, had been somewhat less than he had hoped for. Though he was promised revenge in the form of torture on those who had harmed him in the past, thus far that had not occurred, he had only been given innocents to torture, and the people he truly hated had gotten away free. As for the other things he had been promised, some of them he had been given, some he had not. But those he had been given, he liked far less than he thought he would a short while back. Women, for instance. The Dark Lord had promised him women, and on that he had delivered. But the young Death Eater had found that the reality was not as good as he had imagined. He was an ugly youth, had always been, and as such had little experience with women other than those he had obtained through bribery or blackmail. The thought of all the women he wanted had been attractive, he had even enjoyed it for a while, but it had palled quickly. He found that he did not care for the female Death Eaters, who lay in his bed like a stone, looking at him in contempt as they fulfilled what was, to them, merely another dull task in Voldemort's service. Nor did he care for the muggles or captured female wizards the Dark Lord allowed him to rape. He found that he craved neither indifference, nor fear in his bed. He wanted he wanted He did not know for certain what he wanted, never having experienced it. He wanted a woman who would look at him with love in her eyes, and hold him after they had finished making love. What he wanted, in other words, was the one thing neither the Dark Lord nor anyone else could ever provide him.

It was with something of relief that the young Death Eater had discovered that he could use the excuse of needing to mind his cauldrons full of potions to avoid attending any of the increasingly distasteful attacks or revels the Dark Lord and his other followers often engaged in. Killing and rutting like the animals they were. He would far rather be alone in a dim room lit only by the flames under the cauldrons, and alone with his thoughts.

So it was rather a surprise to him to be interrupted on this particular day by a small group of older Death Eaters, several years in the Dark Lord's service. They burst in on him after a perfunctory knock at the door that they did not even give him a chance to answer.

"What are you doing in here?" The young Death Eater sneered at them. "Can you not see that I have work to do? Close the door, the drafts are chilling my cauldrons."

One of the Death Eaters slammed the door shut. A violent gesture that seemed to betoken extreme nervousness rather than hostility.

"Sorry." The unwelcome visitors shuffled around for a bit, before one of them addressed him.

"We need your help, right?"

The young Death Eater looked down his long nose at his visitors. "With what? My job is to brew potions for the Dark Lord. He has given me a long list of potions he wants. Enough to keep me busy for months. If you want a potion for yourselves, the proper thing to do is to ask the Dark Lord about it first. If he believes it to be important, he will tell me."

He turned away. Truth be told, he didn't really care what these strange Death Eaters wanted. His aim in telling them to relay their request to the Dark Lord was mainly to get rid of them so he could be alone once more.

"We don't need any potions. We need your help with something else. Won't take long. We'd pay you well for your time and trouble, right?"

The young Death Eater considered these words. If they were offering to pay him, they were obviously doing something behind the Dark Lord's back. Depending on what it was, and how angry it would make the Dark Lord if it were discovered, it might be worthwhile helping them with. Not for the pay, but rather for the future ability to blackmail them into favors. He took out his wand and cast a charm at the flames under the cauldrons, shrinking them so that the cauldron could simmer for a few hours without being attended to.

"I see." He said in a carefully neutral voice. "And what is it you would have me assist you with?"

One of the Death Eater, who seemed to have appointed himself spokesperson for the rest, stepped towards him, and after licking his lips nervously. "Well, it's like this. We want you to help us hide something."

The young Death Eater looked at the one who had spoken in contempt. "And what do you need my help with that for? If you have something to hide, then you would be best off simply hiding it and not telling me about it. The more people who know about it, the less safe your secret is."

"Umm. Yeah. Well, we want to protect it better than just stowing it somewhere. We want to make sure no-one can ever find it. We were thinking of casting the Fidelius spell on it. It's worked well enough for the Potters, and other people. And making you the Secret Keeper. No-one knows you know about it, they would never guess you were the Secret Keeper."

"Do you really think I am stupid enough or suicidal enough to help you conceal something from the Dark Lord?" The young Death Eater asked.

"It ain't the Dark Lord we want to hide it from." The Death Eater told him. He seemed about to add more, but then thought better of it. "Look, we have it right outside. Why don't you come and look at it, and then decide. What do you have to lose?"

The young Death Eater snorted to himself. It was possible that this was all some test of loyalty, engineered by the Dark Lord. But if that were the case, he could always claim later that he was only pretending to go along with those treacherous to the Dark Lord, so as to discover the full extent of their betrayal and reporting them later. He let himself be led outside by the others, and was slightly surprised that what had been a bright day had become quite cold and gloomy. It was not much brighter outside than it had been in his chambers, in fact. He blinked nonetheless, more through reflex than because of any real light.

There were other Death Eaters out there, guarding a large box covered with a tarp. At a nod from their leader, one of them swept the canvas off of it, and let the young Death Eater gaze at what they had hidden there.

He stared at it for a very long time, saying nothing. Finally he turned to the Death Eater nearest him.

"You want me to hide that? THAT?"

The older Death Eater nodded, and the younger one's forming opinion of his visitors as fools solidified. He could not conceive of the necessity of even bothering to hide the thing they were showing him for the simple reason that he could not conceive of any circumstances whatsoever under which anyone in his right mind would ever want to look for such a thing.

Obviously his visitors were fools, animals panicked by the own workings of their paranoid imaginations. Still, even fools could be useful, and in the future he might be glad to have them owing him favors. So after one long, last look at the thing in the box, he nodded his silent agreement to their proposal.

Thus it was that the thing in the box was taken via Apparating to a gloomy cave, sealed in with wards, and protected by the bond of the Fidelius spell. The young Death Eater, who was quite curious by nature, wondered for a few days just WHY these other Death Eaters had been so desperate to hide it. But though he got no answers, he did not wonder for long. The Dark Lord kept him busy, and eventually he had other things on his mind, such as his own decision to leave the service of the Dark Lord, which was followed by other events so chaotic that the thing in the cave was all but forgotten, relegated to a dusty and little visited corner of his mind. Many things happened over the time that passed, including the arrests and executions of those who had originally sought out his help in hiding the thing. And in the end, the return of the Dark Lord himself. Through all that time, though, the young Death Eater who had become a man did not think often on the thing in the cave. After all, despite the fears of the other Death Eaters, no-one had ever come looking for the thing. It was all but forgotten, an unimportant footnote to a mistaken period of his life.

It was over 15 years before he was ever to remember it again.


	2. Chapter 2

1996

The dark cloaked figure apparated into the men's bathroom in the muggle part of the train station. He looked around at the cramped, graffiti filled stall, then stepped out, wrinkling his nose at the sour smell of urine and sweat. He took out his wand, muttered a spell, and a wheeled dolly stacked with cardboard boxes materialized next to him, apparated from where he had so carefully prepared it.

Stepping up to the mirror, the man took a small vial of polyjuice potion out of his pocket, braced himself, and swallowed the foul tasting concoction. He hissed in pain as his bones and muscles shifted into a new form. Who it was, he didn't know. Some muggle, he supposed. He had gotten hair clippings from the trash of a barber shop a few blocks away. His current form was unimportant, but even this far from home, there were those in the wizarding community who might recognize him, should he venture among them undisguised.

A muggle came into the bathroom now, prepared to use one of the foul smelling urinals, then looked at him in concern as he endured the last of the changes the polyjuice wrought in his flesh.

"You alright, man?" the muggle asked.

"I'm fine." He said curtly. Straightening up, he took the dolly and wheeled it out of the bathroom. He had little time to waste, polyjuice lasted less than an hour. He strode with the dolly over to some coin lockers in one corner of the muggle's train station, fed a cheap peice of debased muggle currency into it, and stripped off his dark grey trench coat, and fedora. Underneath he wore a clean white uniform with an embroidered tag that red 'Bernie Botts Candy Company'. He removed the key from the locker, stuffed his coat and hat into it, then slammed it shut.

Turning back to the dolly, he walked swiftly along the train station, not even bothering to pause at the invisible barrier between the muggle and wizarding worlds, but simply entering unhesitatingly onto platform 9 3/4. There were numerous students already gathered there with their luggage. Some with parents, and some without. He ignored them, those still attending Hogwarts as students were far too young to concern his particular interest. Farther down he saw a row of snack carts near the front of the train, waiting to be loaded onto it, to feed the sweet tooth of the travelling young wizards.

That was what he had been looking for. Spinning the dolly around rapidly, he headed for the rows of candy laden carts. Suddenly he froze in place, an odd glint catching his eye. Odd, and yet all too familiar. He stopped in midstride and looked around slowly.

Where was it? A discordant note jangled his senses, like a file being scaped across a violin string. A note felt, rather than heard, as he sensed the foul intrusion into the higher dimensions that had so nearly become home to him these past many years. Shifting his awareness with practiced ease, he saw the glint of a foul, pulsing dark green thread, so dark it was nearly black.

There... that man. The Dark Mark. Blood rushed in his ears and stained his vision red as he struggled for self control. His heard his heart thundering, beating in time to the pulsing ichor of the etheric connection of the Dark Mark. He could not always sense the other-dimensional intrusion that accompanied the presence of it, but today his senses seemed particularily acute. His hands gripping the dolly, he stared at the man, who was talking with several other adult wizards. He breathed slowly, almost sensing rather than feeling the dark mark twisting through the wizard before him, not only on the surface of the skin, but delving like a foul worm all the way to the wizard's heart, to his very soul. And thence on it's way through the other dimensions, connecting the wizard to his master, Lord Voldemort. Connecting him... and draining him, like the vein of a vampire.

One hand, coated with furious sweat, twisted off of the dolly, and unbidden, found the handle to one of his twin wands. It was only through a furious effort of will that he forced himself to release the wand, and turn away from the Death Eater before him. Odds were this was not the one he was looking for. Nevertheless, as his normal senses returned, he marked his face carefully, for it was always possible that this WAS the one.

Turning away, he took the dolly in hand again, and finished his journey to the candy carts. The conductor and a few of the staff of platform 9 3/4 were there.

"Morning." He said cheerfully to the conductor.

"'Ello there." The conductor said. "What's all this?"

"Candy for the kiddies." The diguised wizard smiled crookedly. "Chocolate frogs, fresh from Bernie Bott's."

"Ah, good." The conductor said. "The children love them, and I was afraid we wouldn't have any. I thought we did, but when we went to check the supply room this morning we were out. We owled for more immediately, of course, but I didn't know if they'd get here on time for the journey to Hogwarts."

"I know. They sent me out first thing this morning to make sure you'd get them on time." The man said casually. Naturally the train station had been out of chocolate frogs, he'd removed them himself two nights ago. Nor had the owl in question ever reached Bernie Bott's factory. It had been... sidetracked, in order to make sure that he could replace the missing cases of chocolate frogs with his own special creations.

"Where shall I put them then?" He asked the conductor.

"Oh, just stack them next to that cart in front there." The conductor waved at it. "We'll open 'em and put a box or two in each cart ourselves."

"Capitol." He gave a little nod and took the boxes of chocolate frogs off the dolly. "I'll be off then. Got a bunch more deliveries before lunch."

The conductor nodded and asked some question about the coal on the train to one of the other employees. The man took the dolly, spun it around, and headed back towards the other end of the platform, back out through the wall, and into the Muggle's world again.

Thrusting the dolly away from him as soon as he was out of the wizards platform, the man leaned against the wall and breathed deeply   
several times. Seeing someone with the dark mark made him feel polluted, as if he had bathed in a septic tank.

Bastards. Stinking bastards, all of them. Someday he would find what he was looking for and then... well never mind. Best to concentrate on the task at hand.

He left the dolly. No doubt some muggle would find a use for it. Returning to the coin lockers, he fished the key out of his pocket and put his dark grey trench coat and fedora back on. Just then a sudden twinge informed him that the polyjuice was wearing off. He gripped the frame of the lockers, steadying himself, until his own features had returned. Then he gazed one last time at the invisible entrance to platform 9 3/4.

Let the students buy their chocolate frogs, as they most certainly would. Let them enjoy their sweets, for the frogs themselves were  
innocent, the genuine Bott's product. Regardless of what else he might have done in his life, he would not stoop to poisoning children. And then let them enjoy their wizarding trading cards, for it was the cards that were important, oh yes. Some of them no doubt would carelessly let them fall to the floor of the train, to be swept up and discarded in the trash, and some would toss them out the window of the train, for the simple pleasure of watching them flutter across the countryside in the wind, like autumn leaves.

But most would keep them, bring them to Hogwarts with them, adding them to their collection, trading them, and having them confiscated by the occasional irate professor. And all that time, the cards would be nearly indistinguishable from the ordinary ones, save by very close magical examination by someone as skilled as he was in certain arts, who knew precisely what they were looking for. And eventually, inevitably, the cards would find their way into every corner of Hogwarts. Awaiting only his spell, his command, to activate whichever of them suited him.

He took out his wand and spoke the words that would apparate him away, with only the slightest sigh of regret. A pity he had to use children in this way, even if he wasn't harming them. But he was desperate in his purpose, and did what had to be done.

A slight puff of wind, a draft blew away a few scraps of old newspaper where the man had been standing a second earlier. His game had now begun.

Let the cards fall where they may.


	3. Chapter 3

On the Hogwart's Train - 1996

The trolley on the Hogwarts train had been slow in coming around on Harry's sixth year trip on that locomotive. Although he did not know it, this had been because the chocolate frogs had not been delivered until the last minute. The train had been nearly ready to leave when a wizard, assumed by everyone to be a deliveryman for Bernie Botts, had finally wheeled them in. As a consequences, they were hastily put on the train, still packed in cardboard cases, at the very last minute before the train had been about the leave.

The woman who pushed the trolley around had been forced to spend much time removing the usual simple wards that sealed the chocolate frogs in the cases, unpacking them, and arranging them on her trolley for individual sale. The trolley was magic, of course, and like many wizarding suitcases and wardrobes, was far larger on the inside than the outside. The three cases of chocolate frogs she decided to unpack took up scarcely any of the availiable room inside the trolley, but they still had to be neatly arranged. If she simply tossed the candy into the vast interior of the trolley without any system of organization, it would be well nigh impossible to find the right candies again when the students on the train bought them.

Not knowing any of this, Harry could do little but complain about his hunger, when the trolley failed to make an appearance at the expected time. The two friends with him, Luna and Neville, were equally ignorant of these circumstances, and could do little but agree with him. Even in the magical world, there was a complex network of economy and industry, and the organization and infrastructure necessary to do even such a simple task as growing, harvesting, and shipping the ingredients for candies, refining those raw ingredients into tasty, magical confections, packaging them, and shipping them to scores of vendors, such as that on a train, was as delicately balanced, and as easily interfered with, as a delicate muggle watch. Harry and his friends were not aware of this, though. The infrastructure needed to provide them with candy, or any of a thousand other goods that they took for granted, was not a subject that interested them at all. Although in two more short years, many of them would be employed by that infrastructure, a vast, stark world filled with it's own sort of energy and purpose, and far larger than they would have believed, they were still young and naive enough to be nearly entirely oblivious of it; and the fact that the trolley was late was interpreted by Harry and his friends to be incompetence on the part of the woman who sold from it, and by other students such as Draco Malfoy, to be a deliberate attempt to irritate him and his fellow Slytherins. It may be of interest to note that Draco, unlike most of his fellow students, was somwhat aware of the organization and effort needed to provide him with sweets. It was, however, still not a subject which interested him. He regarded that entire infrastructure as being far beneath his station in life, and the people whose efforts made possible his housing and daily bread were, to his way of thinking, little more than vermin to be enslaved by their betters, such as himself. The fact that he was entirely incompetent to provide himself with food, shelter, or any other necessities or luxuries, did not enter into his mind when he formed this opinion of those who were competent to do those things. The death eater's philosophy which he had been spoonfed all his life by both parents was based on blood, not merit.

Nevertheless, despite the student's poor opinion of it's lateness, and general ignorance of the reasons for it, the trolley did come around, eventually. By the time it did, Harry had left Neville and Luna to go and have lunch with Professor Slughorn in another compartment. The trolley came to Neville and Luna first, who eagerly dug some coins out of their pockets to purchase sweets. Luna looked dubiously at the sweets, her eyes open quite wide as she decided what she wanted.

"I'd best not have the cockroach clusters." She told the woman who pushed the trolley. "I heard that the cockroaches could lay eggs, and then they would hatch and the little cockroaches crawl around inside you."

"That's disgusting, Luna." Neville said. "That can't be true? Can it?"

"It's part of the conspiracy of dark wizards. Some of them are animagi that turn into cockroaches." Luna then took several minutes to explain how this was part of the rotfang conspiracy, as the cockroach clusters would not only hatch inside you, but also contained extra sugar with which to rot your teeth.

"Oh for heaven's sake!" The trolley woman threw up her arms. "I've never heard such rot in my life. Do you want candy or not? I've spent too much time here listening to you."

Neville hastily purchased some licorice whips and two chocolate frogs. Luna frowned at his choice, and told him that the licorice whips could come alive and strangle you, and ordered a single chocolate frog and some miniature candied pumpkins for herself. She paid the trolley woman, and then bit into one of the miniature pumpkins with evident satisfaction. They were a special, magical variety, with creamy marshmallow, caramel or whipped cream inside, and hull-less seeds of different flavors.

Neville opened his two chocolate frogs, eager to see the cards.

"I've got Nicholas Flamel... and Merlin." he said, holding them up to show Luna. "I wish they would get some new ones. There's plenty of famous herbologists they've never made a card of."

"I'll just be happy so long as they don't make any of Grindewald." Luna said. She had gotten full on her miniature pumpkins, and put her chocolate frog in her suitcase to eat later. Being somewhat scatterbrained, she never did get around to eating it, the frog sat forgotten on her dresser at Hogwarts for a few weeks until a sticky-fingered second-year Ravenclaw snatched it one day, and added the card inside to her own collection.

The rest of the frogs and cards were distributed among the students, just as the wizard had known they would be. Draco Malfoy, and his two friends Crabbe and Goyle bought several. Malfoy did not eat any of them, letting his two friends enjoy the chocolate. He had other things on his mind that year. Nevertheless, he insisted that they give him all of the cards. None of them were particularily rare, but he could still use them to bribe some of the younger Slytherins into doing him occassional favors. He ripped up one he saw of Albus Dumbledore, and tossed the peices out of the window of his compartment, but the majority of them made their way into Hogwarts, there to sit like a countless hibernating snakes, only awaiting the command of their maker to rouse from their stupor and strike.

It was not until late in the afternoon that the trolley made it's way to Compartment C, where Harry was squirming uncomfortably while listening to Professor Slughorn and several of the other students he had also invited to dine with him. It was with something of relief that he got up to buy candy from the trolley, when it finally arrived. He bought three chocolate frogs, and several self-stretching taffies, which he judged would keep his mouth full enough not to have to participate in, what was to him, a rather boring social event with people he did not particularily care for.

He opened the first chocolate frog, and smiled to see Dumbledore's face looking back at him from the card inside. Dumbledore had been one of the first chocolate frog cards he had ever gotten, way back when he had only been 11. He felt oddly choked to notice that the portrait in the card did not have a withered hand, like the real Dumbldedore now did. It seemed unfair, that portraits were eternal, while real people had to die and vanish forever. Perhaps it would almost be better, to be a painting, and not have to worry about death, or Voldemort, or anything else. Dumbldedore did not seem to be very concerned about his withered hand, or dying, or anything else, but Harry didn't understand that. He had been confused and unhappy ever since Cedric Diggory's death, and could not share Dumbledore's calm.

He finished the chocolate frog, and held the card up to his nose, sniffing the lingering chocolate scent. It brought back memories of when he had been younger, and things far simpler. The wizarding world had been much friendlier then, a fantastic refuge from the boring, annoying Dursleys, rather than a place which contained both great good, and great evil. Slughorn noticed him and chuckled.

"What do you have there, Harry?" He asked. A few Slytherins whom he had invited, snickered to see Harry getting sentimental over a toy painting, but Harry deliberately ignored them. Another student who had purchased a chocolate frog had gotten a very rare and valuable card of a Goblin wizard, and held it up triumphantly. For a moment Harry wished he had gotten that one, but then changed his mind. As he had told Rufus Scrimgeuer, he was Dumbledore's man, through and through.

"It's Professor Dumbledore." He held up the card slightly so Slughorn could see it. "I used to have another one of him, a long time ago, but it's gotten lost. I think I'll keep this one to replace it."

And for good luck, he added to himself, silently. He tucked the card into the breast pocket of his shirt, where it would be safe. And perhaps, some of Dumbledore's better traits like his calm, and skill as a wizard, would rub off onto him. He could certainly use all the help he could get, with Voldemort trying to kill him.

Unaware that there was any more to the card that met the eye, or that it would indeed, eventually provide him with help in a most curious fashion, and at a terrible cost; Harry patted the outside of the pocket containing it for luck, and sat back lazily on his seat while a Ravenclaw told Professor Slughorn about a charm he was trying to invent. The card remained there, and was well protected enough that it was not harmed when Draco Malfoy attacked him later on the train, and broke his nose. Like numerous others, it was brought to Hogwarts with Harry.

By the end of the train ride, the trolley had finished it's rounds. Out of 2000 chocolate frogs and their cards that had been delivered to the train, over 1200 had been sold. The remainder would be brought back to the train station, stored for a while, and then no doubt stolen by some employee or the other. The theft would be written off as part of the unavoidable ineffiency of the infrastructure that provided candy, trains, and other goods and services to people. But these did not concern the wizard who had arranged for the replacement of the genuine cards with ones of his own. Nor did the 57 cards which had been lost or deliberately discarded while still on the train, or the two which would be blown out of students pockets while on a rather windy boat ride traditional to the first years.

What did concern him was that over 1000 of the cards eventually made their way into the Hogwarts castle or grounds. Whether the cards were carefully placed in albums, forgotten in drawers, or confiscated by teachers and placed in their desks was irrelevent to their maker's purpose. The main thing was that they were there, and inevitably well distributed, regardless of the particulars of their location. Over 1000 slumbering snakes, awaiting the inevitable command to awaken and perform the tasks he had enchanted them with.

The first hand had been dealt.


	4. Chapter 4

An unknown location. September 30, 1986

The wizard stood next to a large cork bulletin board on which a broad, ivory sheet of enchanted parchment was nailed. The bulletin board was mounted about 3 inches away from highly polished rock walls by short, stout pegs nailed to the back of it. It would not do to let the precious, enchanted parchment to get too close to the rock walls which were so hot that they would burn you in a few moments if you touched them. The wizard himself had gone through so many physical changes in the past several years that he no longer really noticed slight pain or injuries, but he took steps to avoid unnecessary damage to himself out of habit and the memory of the more human being he once had been.

To this end, wooden baffles and gratings were placed in front of not only the rock walls, but also the floor as well. Neither any valuable furniture, nor any of the wizards expensive magical equipment or grimoires, his other numerous possesions, or his own flesh were in danger of accidentally touching the overly hot walls. He could of course stick a finger through one of the holes in the baffles if he wished, but was unlikely to do that. He was a desperate man, not a stupid one, and despite his relative immunity to physical injury, he had no desire to harm himself. At least not in that particular, pointless fashion.

On a large table in front of the bulletin board was a long frame, containing 2000 tiny amulets, no larger than muggle dimes, mounted in 20 neat rows of 100 each. Each amulet corresponded to one of the chocolate frog cards which he had so cleverly had the Hogwarts students smuggle into their own school for him. The rows of amulets were surrounded by carefully arranged crystals, and runes of a peculiar foreign type. Some of the runes were quite primitive looking, actually resembling animals. The wizard was not from England, but another country, and the magic he had learned partook both of that more modern than that generally in use in England, and that far more primitive. His people were quite pragmatic, to a great extent resembling Slytherins more than any other house of Hogwarts, and would use any sort of magic that would accomplish their purpose, without any sort of discrimination for mere emotional or social reasons.

Raising his wand, the wizard began to chant a long, complex incantation. The crystals surrounding his amulets began to glow and vibrate so violently that a more timid magician would have been afraid they were about to explode. The wizard paid them no mind, however. He was highly skilled in Arithmancy, among other things, and knew the precise amount of magical power these crystals could take. Although the crystals were near the limits of what they could tolerate, they would not actually explode in the amount of time he needed to finish his spell.

Continuing to chant and move his wand in precise patterns, he nodded slightly as the runes began to glow and writhe. The ones that looked like primitive drawings of animals almost seemed to be imbued with totem spirits, and actually crawled around the board, exploring the amulets with paws and tongue as if they had come alive.

Now he drew his wand swiftly and decisively as a sword across the neat rows of amulets, being sure to touch every single one. The enchantments he had previously placed on the amulets discharged into his wand, making it quiver in his hand so violently that if his strength had not been far greater than any normal human being's, it would have torn itself from his grasp. As it was, he had to use almost all the effort he was capable of to retain control of it.

Grinning ferally at the power he was invoking, the wizard finished drawing his wand across the lowermost row of amulets, and placed the tip in the center of a large ornate rune, one resembling a multi-colored serpent surrounding the sun, as if it were either guarding it, or about to devour it. Then he did something very odd. Holding the violently shaking wand in the rune with his right hand, he reached down to his belt with his left hand, and drew a second wand, identical to the first, out of the sheath. He placed the tip of the second wand on the blank peice of parchment on the cork board in front of him, and with a great effort, forced a final incantation from his lips, which were coated with an oddly colored froth that was darker than spit or sweat, but lighter than any normal sort of blood.

At once, the magical energy stored in his first wand began to channel itself through his body, causing him to convulse as if in the throes of a lethal electric current. A lesser wizard, or one who had not done the terrible things to himself that this one had would not have been able to withstand it, and would have been hurled across the room, unconscious or worse. As it was, the wizard simply tightened his lips, giving his grin an ever more carnivorous appearance, and held firmly to both wands as the enchantment of the parchment was carried out. Spidery lines of black ink emerged from the tip of the wand pressed on the parchement. They throbbed slightly, as if they were the veins of a living being. As they spread, parts of them faded and other parts arranged themselves, until they formed a map. In the center of the map was Hogwarts, of course. The enchantment he had cast used the chocolate frog cards to map the people and the surroundings in their immediate area. There were enough chocolate frog cards in Hogwarts itself that his map of the castle itself was complete. There was a less detailed area surrounding it, of the Hogwarts grounds and outer edge of the Forbidden Forest, which had been mapped by cards dropped by students on the grounds. Farther out yet were a few maps of other areas, mainly houses and trash heaps in London, where the cards that had been left over after the train ride had ended up, having been either thrown away, or stolen by the employees of Platform 9 3/4.

At last the mapping was complete, and the wizard nearly fell over with relief. He let his wands fall from his hands and propped himself against the table for several minutes, panting. Then he picked up his wands, sheathed one of them and turned with the other to look at the map he had made. It resembled the Marauder's Map, showing not only the area it was in, but the people there as well. The wizard was not at all interested in the houses or names of dishonest railroad employees, so he cast a brief charm at the map, causing the sketchily drawn areas of London to shrink to small dots, and arrange themselves along the sides of the map. The map of Hogwarts and the surrounding grounds expanded to fill the newly emptly space. The wizard smiled at it, and then noticed that a new area had suddenly appeared, beneath it. It appeared to be the inside of a small shop of some kind. He shrugged. No doubt someone with one of his cards had just apparated or taken the floo there, causing it to appear on his map. He was not interested in their shopping excursion, and waved his wand at the new area, causing it to shrink and join the other irrelevent areas along the edge of the map.

No, there was only one place he was interested in. Or rather one person, but at this time of the year, he was to be found almost exclusively in the carefully mapped Hogwarts Castle. The wizards looked at the numerous names and footprints wandering around on the map. Most of them were unfamiliar to them. A few of the last names he had heard of, but they were his enemies, and were to either be ignored like the rest, or dealt with harshly if they attempted to interfere with him.

Finally, he found the name he was looking for, in a small classroom on the lowest floor of Hogwarts. The footprints of the one he sought moved back and forth slightly, as if performing a task while standing in front of a table. The wizard reached out one long finger and caressed the name with an almost tender gesture, as gently as he would the breast of a treasured lover. A greedy, almost hungry expression formed on his face as he pronounced the name of the one whom he had come all this way to find.

"Harry Potter."


	5. Chapter 5

Hogwarts Castle. September 30, 1996

The mapping spell cast by the wizard set off alarm wards all over Hogwarts, of course.

The wards were even more stringent than they usually were. Albus and certain of the Professors at Hogwarts had been spending a great deal of effort tightening them, in light of the return of Lord Voldemort and the increased amount of Death Eater activity. But even at their normal level, they would have been set off by the intense power of the multiple mapping spells cast by the wizard. The violated wards, of course, did not do anything so crude as set off flashing lights or braying sirens, like muggle burglar or fire alarms did. Nevertheless, they made all of the staff at Hogwarts, with the exception of the squib caretaker, Filch, aware that something was amiss. Most of them were not aware of the details, of course, and after spending a few minutes to ascertain that there were no Death Eaters present and nothing else immediately dangerous had happened, such as Lord Voldemort sending a large exploding crystal through someone's floo, the Professors all converged on Dumbledore's office to demand an explanation.

"I am well aware of the violation of the wards around Hogwarts." Dumbledore assured his staff, after they had crowded into his office. He paused for a moment as Filch came stumbling in with and agitated, hissing Mrs. Norris, who had insisted he follow her to the Headmaster's chambers.

"Sorry Headmaster." The caretaker apologized, uncomfortable in the presence of so many who could use magic denied to a squib like himself. "Mrs. Norris practically chased me up here."

He looked around, wondering why the professors were all assembled in one place. "Is there somethin' goin' on, Headmaster?"

"Everything is fine, Argus." Dumbledore assured him. "Mrs. Norris no doubt sensed in her own way what the rest of us were just made aware of, that the wards around Hogwarts were just violated by several very powerful spells. There is no immediate danger, however."

Dumbledore waved his hands, calming Mrs. Norris instantly. "Please take Mrs. Norris and go patrol the corridors as you usually do, Argus. I would not want any students taking advantage of the current situation to violate curfew."

The caretaker nodded. Seeking out and punishing rule-breaking students was something he understood, and enjoyed. It was a way of scoring back, at least a little bit, on brats given the gift of magic who, almost universally, didn't appreciate it; and for the most part, were completely irresponsible with their use of it. He picked up Mrs. Norris, stroked her, and headed on back down the spiral staircase.

"That applies to most of the rest of you as well. I promise you, there is no immediate danger to Hogwarts from the magical spells that were cast. I would like to discuss the situation with the four heads of house, but the rest of you are dismissed. I shall send you all a letter through the floo tomorrow discussing what has just occurred. Hagrid, if you would, please assist Argus in patrolling the halls. Ask the ghosts to help you as well. The rest of you, except the four heads of house, may return to your quarters."

In a few moments, the headmasters office was emptied of all but him and the four heads of the houses at Hogwarts. They remained silent until they heard the last professor closing the door at the bottom of the staircase, and then Minerva McGonnagal burst out with the questions they all had.

"Albus, what in the world is going on?" She said with a serious expression on her face. "I felt all those spells going off at once, it was as if the wards weren't even there. What sort of spells were they? Whoever it was, cannot have any good intentions towards Hogwarts."

"They were mapping spells." Snape interjected, before the headmaster could answer. He looked slightly abashed for a moment at speaking out of turn, but then his face straigtened to it's usual dour expression once more, and he looked at the headmaster for confirmation.

"Yes, thank you, Severus." Albus nodded towards him, before turning to Professor McGonnagal once more. "They were, indeed, mapping spells. Which, as you know, are not at all dangerous."

Professor McGonnagal looked at Snape for a long moment, speculating on how he had known the nature of the spells when she had not. It seemed that Snape was far more powerful a wizard than he generally permitted people to know. She filed that bit of information silently, along with other questions she had regarding the ex-death eater. Then she turned back to Dumbledore.

"Mapping spells? But there were so many of them!"

"Yes." Albus agreed cheerfully, as if the number of mapping spells was no more significant than the number of straws in the thatched roof of Hagrid's hut. "There were over a thousand of them. One thousand and fifty-seven, if you wish to be precise."

"Over a thousand!" Minerva gasped and turned pale, nearly falling backwards into her chair. Professor Flitwick squeaked in alarm but said nothing. Using Arithmancy, he had calculated on the way to Albus's office the approximate number of spells that had probably been cast, and then rejected the answer he had come to as impossible. Only now to hear that answer confirmed from the headmaster's own lips. Minerva glanced at the tiny charms professor, who was wiping his forehead with a large white handkerchief, and turned back to the headmaster. "Over a thousand mapping spells? Why would anyone do such a thing? Who would be capable of it? Albus, the amount of magical power needed to cast so many charms simultaneously would kill many wizards who attempted it."

"It was the Dark Lord." Professor Snape interrupted once more. "It must have been. He has both the desire, and the magical ability. It could have been no other."

"Lord Voldemort! Merlin help us all!" Minerva gasped. "Headmaster, we cannot simply sit by and do nothing while Lord Voldemort violates the wards around this school and obtains maps of it. Who knows what spells he is going to cast next! We must contact the Ministry and ask them to send all the aurors they have at once to protect us!"

The tiny professor Flitwick jumped on his chair and agreed. He began giving a speech in his piping voice about his fears that Lord Voldemort would turn his house, Ravenclaw, into a nest of future Death Eaters, like he already had done to Slytherin. Snape took objection to this and began snarling at the tiny charms master, who in turn began saying some very nasty things indeed about certain of the Slytherin students, in particular Draco Malfoy and his friends.

"SILENCE!" Dumbledore said. Abashed, Flitwick and Snape closed their mouths and sat down, glaring at one another across the table. "I will not have my Heads of House insulting one another. Hogwarts is already too far divided as it is. It may already be too late to heal the breach that is slowly killing us. I will not have you adding to it. You should both know better."

Flitwick and Snape both looked embarrassed, and sorry at their outbursts. Professor Sprout, who had said nothing, also looked ashamed of herself. Dumbledore glanced at her, easily divining her mood. Although she had not joined Professor Flitwick in saying aloud cruel things about Professor Snape's house, she had silently agreed with everything he had said.

Satisfied that he had properly chastened his Professors, Dumbledore pulled the sleeve of his robe over his blackened hand, and began to speak to them once more. "Now then. Although this was very powerful magic, and has invaded the sancity of Hogwarts, I do not believe that Lord Voldemort or any of his followers were responsible for what occured."

"Lord Voldemort not responsible?" Professor Spout spoke for the first time. "Albus, this was very powerful magic. Very few wizards are capable of it. And as Professor Snape pointed out, Lord Voldemort has both the ability and the motivation to do such a thing."

"I believe that Professor Snape is mistaken." Dumbledore said smoothly. "It is not your fault, Severus. If I had not spent quite so many years studying Lord Voldemort and attempting to fathom his motivations, I would probably make the same mistake as you have. As it is, I do not believe that this magic was cast by him."

"How can you say that, Headmaster?" Snape was not pleased to be disagreed with, even by Dumbledore, and it showed in the harsh tone of his voice. "Who else could it possibly have been but the Dark Lord? What could possibly convince you otherwise."

Dumbledore smiled ruefully. Sometimes when you were too close to something, it was hard to see it clearly. Thus it was with Severus and Lord Voldemort. But he would not humiliate Snape by saying so in front of the other three heads of house.

"There are several things which convince me otherwise, Severus." Dumbledore raised a finger on his healthy, left hand, as he began to ennumerate them. "First of all, despite the fact that it requires a great deal of magical power to cast so many mapping spells, power which very few wizards such as Lord Voldemort and myself possess, there ARE other wizards who do possess it. Perhaps very few in England, but England is but one very small corner of the world, containing only a fraction of the wizarding population. There are other wizards, elsewhere, who are capable of such a thing."

He had the attention of his professors. Raising another finger, Dumbledore continued. "Secondly, consider the sort of spell that was cast. A mapping spell. Why would Lord Voldemort need to map the interior of Hogwarts? He attended this school for seven years, during which he learned almost as much about it's interior as I do, I dare say. No, Lord Voldemort would not need to cast so many powerful spells to map Hogwarts. He could make a far better map from his own memory."

Snape considered this thoughtfully. Having once been a Death Eater, he knew that Lord Voldemort was loathe to weaken himself for any reason, much less a pointless one. And Albus was right. Lord Voldemort already knew all he needed to about the interior of Hogwarts. He hardly needed to weaken himself by casting so many powerful spells to get a map of it.

"I believe you are right, Headmaster." Snape said respectfully, bowing his head slightly. "Please go on."

"Thank you, Severus." The thank you was for more than his current agreement, though the other heads of house did not know that as of yet. Albus raised yet another finger. "Thirdly, Hogwarts was not the only place in which these mapping spells were cast. Although far many more such spells were cast here than anywhere else, there were a number of them which were cast in Hogsmeade Village, as well as in certain locations in the wizarding areas of London. And though I am not certain, I suspect they were cast elsewhere, as well."

The heads of house knew better than to ask how Albus knew what had occured in other cities. He had his own sources of information that they were not privy to.

"This does not smack of Lord Voldemort's sort of magic at all." Albus said. "Even if he wished to map Hogwarts, which he does not need to, he would do so far more efficiently than this. He would not waste his magic mapping other areas. No, whoever cast this magic is far more patient than Lord Voldemort, and willing to trust in chance, and dare I say it, fate, as well, to accomplish his goals."

"Which are what, Albus?' Professor McGonnagal said with pursed lips. "Even if this is not Lord Voldemort, I am still worried about it. Any wizard with this sort of power is a serious threat, and if he is violating our wards to map our school, his intentions towards us can hardly be good. And how did he accomplish this, anyways? Even Lord Voldemort has never been able to get magic past our wards."

"Ah, there are ways, Minerva." Albus told her. "There will always be ways past every barrier. If they were completely impenetrable, we would not be able to get in or out ourselves. And neither would the air we breath, for that matter. As for precisely how it was done, would you believe that I am not entirely certain as of yet. I have several ideas, but until this wizard does something further, I will not be able to determine which of them is correct."

"So you would just have us do NOTHING, Headmaster? Wait for this wizard to play his next hand?" Snape stood up again, outraged at this thought. "What if the next thing he gets past our wards are 1000 inceniary spells to burn Hogwarts down?"

"Do sit down, Severus." Albus said to him. He offered him a lemon drop, which was sullenly refused. "As I said before, this magic does not have the signature of Lord Voldemort on it. I say so not only because of the sort of magic that was done, and the way in which it was done, but also because of the very feel of the magic itself."

Albus got up from his chair and ran his hand slowly over one stone wall, which glowed beneath his palm with the arcane, ethereal runes that formed the wards everywhere in Hogwarts. "When you are a little older, Severus, you will learn that you can detect not only magic, but the intentions behind it. The feelings of the caster, if you will. I am sure that the other professors know what I am talking about, even if they are not as skilled at this branch of legilimency as myself."

He ran his hand over a few more of the glowing runes, and sat back down. "This is one reason why I never trusted Lord Voldemort. Even when he was a young student, his spells constantly had their root in greed, and even more so in fear and hatred. I warned the other professors at the time about this, of course, but they were not as skilled at I at this. They did not see what I saw, and Lord Voldemort could be very charming, when he wished to be."

"These spells," Albus waved his hands at the wards he had just shown them. "Do not have the same sort of emotions behind them that Lord Voldemort has been possessed by all his life. There is greed in them, oh yes. Probably more greed than Lord Voldemort has ever known. But no hatred. Just the opposite, in fact."

"Love, Albus?" Snape concluded correctly what the headmaster was refering to, and then snorted his derision. "How do love and greed go hand in hand? And I find it hard to believe that someone is more greedy than the Dark Lord."

"Ah, Severus." Albus chided him. "Love can often be the most selfish of all emotions. Far more so than hatred. In order to truly be greedy, to truly desire something, you must be capable of loving it. Which Lord Voldemort is not. His greed is a shallow thing, compared to his hatred. I doubt he feels a real, honest desire for anything at all. He collects things, oh yes. But he does not want those things for their own sake, but rather for the satisfaction of taking them away from others."

"You're saying Voldemort doesn't want anything?" Minerva pursed her lips. "Albus, that can't be right. Among other things, he obviously wants to live, probably forever."

"No, Minerva." Albus shook his head sadly. He had failed so many people in his life, first Voldemort, and then others. "Voldemort is ruled by fear and hatred, not love. I doubt very much if he truly wants to live. He simply wants not to die, which is a different matter entirely. As afraid as he is of living, he is even more afraid of death. And the sort of existence he has now can hardly be called life. I doubt that a man who truly wanted to live could tolerate such an existence for long, as Lord Voldemort had made for himself. He would not seek out such a twisted, half living form of existence in the first place. And if he found himself in it, he would most certainly seek to kill himself at the first opportunity. To a man who truly wanted to live, death itself would be far preferable than the sort of twisted existence Voldemort has made for himself."

"So what do we do then, Headmaster." The tiny Professor Flitwick spoke up. "You say this wizard wants something. That he's greedy. What does he want? Will he hurt us to get it? What should we do?"

"I do not believe he is a danger, at least not yet." Dumbledore told him. "I think we should merely be on our guard. And I want you all to remain silent about this incident. If Lord Voldemort discovers that it is possible to get past the wards on this school, he will no doubt not rest until he discovers how it was done. I shall tell the other professors the same thing in the morning. As for what this wizard wants, I am not yet certain of that either. I very much doubt if he merely wants a map of Hogwarts to satisfy a hobby involving geography. He has a purpose for it, of that I am sure. As to what it might be, well it could be anything. There are many things in all our pasts that could someday catch up with us. We shall simply have to wait for him to play his next hand."

He waved his hand. "You are all dismissed. Return to your houses. Severus, if I may speak with you a moment after the others leave?"

Snape nodded, and remained. After the door closed once more, Albus looked at him closely.

"Severus, I did not wish to say so, in front of the others, but you do have a darker past than the rest of the Professors here. Is there anything you know about this? Anything at all you wish to tell me?"

Snape looked at the headmaster. He honestly did not recall anything he could have done as a Death Eater which would cause this specific incident. He had hurt people of course, but had been careful only to hurt those who were weaker than himself. It was not something he was proud of. He supposed that any one of those people could have had a very powerful wizard for a relative or friend, just now coming around looking for revenge, but if so, there was no way for him to find out who it was, or why."

"No, headmaster. I'm sorry." Snape bowed his head. "I told you long ago everything I did of significance, when I still followed the Dark Lord. By now, you probably know more than I do about all of it."

"Yes." Albus gazed at his potions master, using legilemency to divine his thoughts. Snape was telling the truth, at least as he saw it. "Very well, you may go, Severus. Return to your house, and recall what I told you about certain of your students."

"Yes, Headmaster." Snape turned swiftly, closing the door. As he did, a chocolate frog card from his pocket, that he had confiscated from a first year Hufflepuff, fell out, and was blown by a draft back into Dumbledore's office. The headmaster heard the barely perceptible sound of paperboard scraping along the stone floor, and turned to see what it was. Spying the moving portrait on the tiny card, he went over to pick it up with his good hand. It was Morgan Le Fey, one of the darker witches in England's history. Though she had done some good, as well. A bit of magical energy from the card tingled through his hand, reminding him oddly enough of that in the violated wards.

"How very peculiar." He muttered to himself. "I wonder...".

He sat down at the table and placed the chocolate frog card in front of him, regarding it with curious eyes until late in the night.


	6. Chapter 6

October, 1996. Knockturn Alley.

The wizard apparated to a sleazy looking area which was identified by a battered sign on the corner of one block a 'Knockturn Alley'. He had been here several times before, to purchase items that he needed. The shops here tended towards the blacker sorts of magic, which was good. It meant that the people working in them would be unlikely to contact the authorities about any unusual people or purchases.

Right now he needed to renew his supply of polyjuice potion. He was running low, and made it a point to alter his appearance whenever he went out in public in wizarding areas. It was unlikely anyone would recognize him, so far from his home, but he did not want to take the chance.

The first few shops he went into could not help him. One of them specialized in stolen jewelry, another in poisoned weapons and silverware. The clerk at the second directed him to a shop a few doors down with an ancient sign hung over it that said 'Borgin and Burkes'. The wizard entered the shop and saw a weaselly looking man putting several polished bones into a small jar on one of the shelves. He was not certain whether this was Mr. Borgin, Mr. Burke, or merely one of the help. Before he got a chance to ask, the clerk looked up at him. His expression was greedy at first. Here was a new customer. Then the clerk took in the distinctly muggle cut of the grey trench-coat and fedora he wore, and the expression became one of contempt.

" 'S there somethin' I can do for you?" The clerk asked in a voice that suggested that he would just as rather not do whatever it was the wizard wanted.

"I need some polyjuice potion. A lot of it."

" 'Zat so." The clerk had finished filling the jar with bones. The looked like human finger bones, if the wizard was not mistaken. There were a few fingernails on the tips of some of them. "How much do you want?"

"I'd like a whole case. 12 quarts."

"A case?" The clerk gave him an odd look at a request for such a large quantity. Then the greedy expression he had had at first returned to his face. "That's going to cost you, guv'ner."

"How much".

The clerk named a price that was ridiculously high, no doubt expecting to be haggled down, but the wizard just nodded. Money meant very little to him any more. He had plenty of it, but no amount in the world could purchase what he truly desired.

"That's fine." He told the clerk. "Go and get it. I'm in a hurry."

The weasel faced clerk looked askance at a customer who did not care in the slightest that he was being ripped off. Strange, but probably not a trap of any kind. Polyjuice potion had any number of dishonorable uses, but it was not illegal. So he could not get into trouble for selling it.

"Our stocks are down in the cellar. I'll have to go fetch it. Just be a moment." He told the wizard. He cast a simple theft-detection ward, and then opened a small door behind his counter and disappeared down a narrow staircase.

While the wizard was waiting for the clerk to fetch his order from the basement, he looked around at some of the other items in the store. Judging by the quantity of malevolent objects in the shop, the clerk was quite used to customers with unusual requests who were up to no good. Indeed, on close inspection, most of them were far worse than he had realized at first. The worst ones were behind complex disillusionment wards, that made them appear to be something else, except to the clerk and certain privileged customers. The disillusionment had little effect on the wizard, a few moments of concentration, during which he felt his eyes actually physically change, permitted him to see their true nature. Which was utterly horrible and perverted. The choking tie, for instance, was created by a spell that required it to be soaked for 24 hours in the blood of a newborn baby that had been tortured to death. No doubt it was a muggle baby, many dark wizards regarded muggles as nothing more than animals, when the truth was that it was the dark wizards themselves, who were animals.

Just precisely why, the wizard wondered, did so many magical folk think they were so much better than the muggles? Because they were more powerful? Well, so was an ape. A chimpanzee was far stronger than a man, and could easily rip your arm right off and beat you over the head with it.

The wizard was tempted to show the clerk in the shop precisely what power really was. It was hard to restrain himself. The things he had done to himself constantly increased the darker side of his nature. Every day that passed made his temper worse, and his ability to control it more tenuous. But he needed the clerk alive. More respectable shops would no doubt inform the authorities of such large purchases of polyjuice potion as he needed to frequently make. He satisfied himself with the thought that sooner or later the clerk would no doubt be caught and punished by the English Ministry of Magic, who had punishments so disgusting that even someone as twisted as he was could not stomach them.

Thinking of the obscenities that went on in this country in the name of 'justice' was a mistake. His heart, or what he had left of it, thudded violently in his ears. An ominous drumbeat, nearly drowning out the voice of the clerk, who had come back up the stairs with a dusty wooden crate filled with ornate glass bottles.

"This be enough for you, then?" the clerk said. The wizard heard his voice only dimly, as if from a great distance. Then he was broken from his state of fury by the sound of a loud crash. The clerk had dropped the wooden crate on the floor, and was looking at the wizard with a terrified expression on his face. Given the sort of things he sold, it took a lot to frighten the clerk of this shop, but what he saw now was more than sufficient to do so.

"Your... your eyes!" The clerk backed away, behind the counter, but there was nowhere to go but back down in the cellar. And there was no way out of there, he really did not want to be trapped in the dark with the wizard he saw before him. If he was a wizard, and not something else, far worse.

The wizard pressed his hands to his temples, and passed them in front of his eyes. When he looked at the clerk again, there was nothing amiss. "Is there a problem?" He said in a pleasant voice.

"No, no, no problem." The clerk scurried to pick up the crate he had dropped. The impact had splintered a board on one side, but the anti-shattering charms on the bottles had prevented any of them from breaking. "Just a trick of the light. Thought I saw something, but it was nothing. It's the windows in this place, they've been hexed a couple times you know, and play tricks with the light."

The wizard approached the counter, making the clerk cringe backwards. "How much for the lot, then?" He picked up one bottle from the crate and to the clerk's great astonishment, looked fondly at the intricate patterns in the glass, rubbing his finger over the glass as if greeting an old friend.

The clerk quoted him a price that was far lower than the one he had a few minutes before, wanting nothing more now than for the man before him to pay for his purchase and leave his shop.

"That will be fine." The wizard took out a pouch bulging with coins and counted out the precise amount. Then he drew his wand, making the clerk wince in fear once more, but to the relief of the cowardly man, the wizard did nothing more than cast a 'reducio' spell on the bottles, so as to slip them into one of the many pockets of the long grey coat he wore. Then he tipped his hat at the clerk and to the man's great relief, turned to leave his shop. It was just as well, as Draco Malfoy was entering, and the Dark Lord's newest servant probably had business to discuss that he did not want anyone else to overhear.

The wizard paused for a moment as a mere stripling of a boy entered the shop he was leaving. He was hardly more than a child. What was he doing in a place like this. He regarded the confident way the boy walked through the narrow aisles, and the recognition in the clerk's eyes. Obviously, despite his youth, the boy was no newcomer to this place. Or perhaps he was no boy. There were numerous magical ways to temporarily alter one's visible appearance or age. As well as darker ways to prevent one from aging much at all. He should know, he had aged far slower than he normally ought to have since he had done some of those dark things to himself, over 15 years ago. The things he had done to himself had been a mistake, but he had had his reasons for doing them at the time. Or so he had thought.

The boy noticed him staring at him. "Do you have a problem? Are you going in or out?"

The defiant tone in his voice was that of a youth, too stupid to know enough to be polite to an unknown person until you had ascertained their strengths and weakness. So it was a mere boy then. The wizard shrugged. Sad, to be corrupt at so young an age, but it was none of his business. The clerk was cringing again, but the wizard ignored him. The man was a gutless parasite.

"Out." the wizard said shortly and left the shop, slamming the door behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

Hogwarts Castle. Halfway through October, 1996.

In the early evening, the day after he had visited Borgin and Burkes, Draco Malfoy was to be found, strangely enough, in one of the girl's bathrooms in Hogwarts.

He was leaning against the wall and crying. This was not uncommon. He had spent many evenings, either here or elsewhere, crying to himself. He had been given a nearly impossible task to complete by a sadistic madman, and threatened with terrible things, if he did not succeed. And it was not merely the threats against him that made him cry, but the undoing of a lifetime of belief. He had been taught since a young child that the madman who now threatened him was a friend of his family's. Now that friend had been shown to be no friend at all. And he could hardly turn to the people whom he had spent his whole life insulting and alienating for succor. No, so far as Draco knew, he did not have a friend in the world.

Except of course, for the ghost that hung out in the bathroom, Moaning Myrtle. Though Draco was not sure if she actually was a friend, so much as she was attracted to someone who managed to spend more time crying than even she did. He could hear her coming up now, making the toilet gurgle and spill water onto the floor. She emerged from it, dripping water, and looked at him with her transparent, ghostly eyes.

"What's wrong, Draco?" She asked. "You come here all the time, crying."

"It isn't fair." Draco snivelled, wiping his face on the sleeve of his robe. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

"Well I'm sure you didn't." Myrtle said. "Were you in an accident? I was in an accident once. I slipped on the floor and spilled a cauldron on someone's pet cat. But they fixed the kitty up fine in the hospital."

"It wasn't an accident." Draco pounded his fist on the walls. "I suppose I meant to do it, but not in the way it happened. I didn't mean to hurt HER. Why couldn't she just do what I told her to do? Why did her friends have to stop her and ruin everything?"

Myrtle had not idea what Draco was refering to, that he had sent an Imperio'ed student by the name of Katie Bell to deliver a cursed necklace from Borgin and Burkes to Dumbledore, but that the necklace had accidentally cursed her instead. She regarded him with puzzlement, looking at not only his body, but his aura, which ghosts could see. She had had several decades to study auras and learn to read the minute details of it, quite accurately. What she saw in Draco's was quite distubing. It had grown darker over the years he had attended Hogwarts, of course. A lot of student's aura's did that. Even many of those in Gryffindor, despite their claims to the contrary, were seduced by various forms of evil. But there was something new and strange in Draco's aura, something that had not been there only yesterday. It was faint, and rapidly fading, but she could still see it.

"Draco," She said faintly. "Did you kill somebody?"

"NO!" He shouted forcefully. He had tried to kill Dumbledore, but had failed. "She isn't dead. She probably should have been, the stupid little chit, but she isn't. I don't understand why I have to do this anyways. Why won't people just leave me alone!"

He burst out sobbing afresh, smashing his fist on the tile floor, wishing that it were the face of all his countless enemies he was really slamming his fist into.

"I just ask because there's a strange mark on your aura." Myrtle said, floating around the room lazily as she examined it from different angles. "We ghosts can all see auras. Though we generally don't tell the living what other people's look like. It's kind of private, you know."

"Really." Draco sneered faintly. "I'm sure you see all sorts of horrible stuff in mine."

"I don't know. It doesn't look like you've killed anyone exactly, now that I look at it more closely. Have you been to any funerals lately? Or maybe seen someone killed?"

"No, I haven't been to any funerals. I probably will be to my own pretty soon, if I can't figure things out, though. What do you say a disgusting thing like that, for, anyways?"

"Well it's just the strange mark in your aura." Myrtle reached out her hand to a point in empty space near Draco's body, indicating something he could not see. "I don't think you've killed anyone, and I don't think you're going to. But you've definitely been close to someone who's dead. Or at least not alive."

She squinted at it again. "You're not being bothered by a vampire, are you, Draco? If you are, you should tell the headmaster. He could help you."

"No-one can help me." Draco sniffed miserably. "And I'm not being bothered by a vampire. If that were my only problem, I could handle it myself, believe me."

"Hmm." Myrtle floated up to the ceiling and twirled lazily around. "You know, it doesn't exactly look like the mark you would get from being by a vampire. It's close, but not quite the same. I've never really seen anything exactly like it before. It's hard to tell, it's fading fairly rapidly. Probably be gone in another few days. Perhaps I'll go ask the Bloody Baron about it. He's been dead much longer than I have, so perhaps he'll know."

"Yeah, you just go and do that. Thanks a heap for making me feel worse." Draco said in a sullen tone, as Myrtle flew away right through a wall. As if he did not have enough on his shoulders with the task the Dark Lord demanded he perform, now he had some mysterious problem with his aura. And there was no-one he could go to ask about it. He certainly did not want to put himself under the peircing gaze of the headmaster, and he doubted very much whether the Dark Lord would care about some mysterious ailment of the soul. He was all alone in the world. Even Moaning Myrtle was gone, now. He was alone, except for a flickering motion on the floor, it's distorted reflection shining off the water Myrtle had spilled from her toilet. Listlessly, he stumbled over to look at it.

It was a chocolate frog card, dropped by one of the younger students no doubt, who had probably had a very full bladder to brave Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Looking at it closer, he saw Dumbledore's cheerful looking portait, far more cheerful and healthy than the living headmaster was looking these days, waving back at him.

Damn him! Draco thought. This was all his fault, just as much as it was that of the Dark Lord. Why couldn't the package have been delivered to him like it was supposed to have been?

Furious, he raised one foot and kicked the card into a filthy corner. Where, because it was filthy and never swept by Filch, it remained; along with the countless other cards which were in Hogwarts. The first hand of the wizard had been dealt, played out, and the ante collected in full. He now knew almost everything about the location of the one he sought, Harry Potter. But mapping was not the only thing the cards he had created were capable of doing. Like a muggle swiss army knife, they were quite versatile, and had a number of carefully thought out functions. He had had 15 long years to decide exactly what spells to put on them. 15 years in which to plot his revenge, and find a way to obtain that which he wanted more than anything else in the world.

The first hand of the wizard's game was over. He had won that round. The second hand was about to begin, and the stakes were now far higher. Things were going to get much worse.


	8. Chapter 8

Knockturn Alley. November 10, 1996.

It was a few days after Guy Fawkes day when the wizard decided to take a break from his personal labors of Sisyphus. He did not often crave the company of his fellow men any more. Nor did he require much sleep. But even his mind grew weary, occasionally, of the strain it had been placed under, and needed the relaxation of a change of scenery and thought.

Thus it was that he apparated to Knockturn Alley. He had furthered his attempts to relax by using the polyjuice potion to transform into someone who was not too dis-similiar in looks and body-size from his true self. He looked at his reflection in a shop window. His eyes were normal, and would hopefully remain so for a few hours. Of late, he had been gradually losing control of some of his darker transformations. A punishment, he supposed, for the dark things he had done to himself. He had no idea what the end result would be, if he lived that long. He hoped not to live that long, and wouldn't if he found what he was looking for soon.

He strode into a nasty looking tavern. There were several hags and worse creatures inside. Some of them had disguised themselves as something at least somewhat human. Others had not bothered. A prostitute, dressed in a lasciviously abbreviated version of Hogwarts robes, was trying to proposition a Goblin, who refused her with a rude gesture. She was an idiot to try. Being far smaller than humans, a Goblin would hardly enjoy himself riding the much larger whore, whose relevent anatomy would be far too loose from his point of view.

Selecting a dim booth set far enough away from the general crowd that no-one would likely notice if anything amiss happened to him, the wizard sat down and gestured to the bartender.

"Veela Blood whiskey." He told the bartender. "If you have it."

He slipped the bartender a heavy gold coin, partly under the table. The bartender nodded. Veela Blood whiskey was outlawed in most countries, for various reasons. Some claimed that it's intense aphrodisiac and other mind-altering effects made it dangerous. Others claimed that the method of making it, which involved fermenting grape juice mixed with blood drawn from a Veela who was in the throes of orgasm, classified it as a Dark Arts substance. The wizard could not have given a damn about either reason. His mind and body was his to do with and alter as he saw fit, so far as he was concerned. As for the Veelas, they were not killed in the process of the blood removal. Killing them would, in fact, have ruined this particularmagical property of their blood. They only donated a pint at a time, and were well paid for it. So if he did not object, and the Veela did not object, he did not see why it should be the place of some puritanical busy-body from the English Ministry of Magic to object.

Veela Blood Whiskey was not illegal in the country he had come from. Neither were many other things, such as the so-called 'unforgivable' curses. Standards were vastly different there.

"How much do you want?" The bartender asked him in a low voice. Any one of his customers could have been undercover aurors, and he did not want it overheard that he stocked illegal subtances in his wine cellar.

"A pint, if you have it."

"That's quite a bit. It's powerful stuff. You sure you can handle it?" The wizard simply gazed back at the bartender, who saw something in his eyes that convinced him. "Yeah, I guess maybe you can. Can you wait about 10 minutes? I'll need to bring it out hidden in a case of Nettlebeer."

The wizard nodded, and the bartender bustled off, attending to some of his other patrons. He tapped his fingers impatiently, but sooner than he expected, the bartender came to his table with a small wineglass, and the bottle of Veela Blood Whiskey, which had been transfigured to look like a bottle of common Nettlebeer.

"That's going to be five Galleons then." The bartender told him. It was much more than the wizard would have paid in his homeland, but then, it was not illegal there. Which meant that not only was the price much lower, but that the purity and quality of it were far better, and people were not killing eachother over the right to sell it in particular areas.

He did not care about quality, though. He wanted a good drunk, not an aesthetic experience. He handed the required coins to the bartender, and drew the cork from the bottle in a single, swift motion. A wisp of silvery vapor came out of the bottle, and the wizard sniffed at the boquet appreciatively. The stuff was good, far better than he would have expected. Obviously some black marketeer or the other had come to the conclusion that even in an illegal business, quality paid.

The wizard poured a little of the whiskey into his glass and swirled it around, gazing at the liquid as it gleamed in the light of candles several feet away. The dark purple of the grapes spiralled around the intense red of the Veela's blood. The patterns beckoned to him, as if they were the arms of a desirable, nude woman. Specks of exotic spices danced in the liquid like minute, tempting faeries. Ah, this was the way a man was meant to live. Smiling, he raised the glass to his lips and took a large gulp, letting the flavors play over his tongue for several moments before letting the precious stuff slip down his throat.

That was wonderful, the wizard thought to himself as the stuff warmed his belly. The warmth became heat, just bordering on the brink of pain in it's intensity, and tingling fire traveled out of his stomach. The tingling spread all through his body, but concentrated on his loins. He became aware that he was not only getting drunk, but was very hard, as well. He smiled at the glass and took another swallow. It was good. It was the effect he had been looking for.

He looked at the prostitute with newly appreciative eyes. It would be good, he thought, if he were to buy her for a few hours.Thechanges in his body not only made him insatiable, but inexhaustable as well. He would take her in the alley, or in the lair he had made for himself, or anywhere else he could have her, ramming her until she literally fainted from ecstacy, and then continue to ride her limp body, giving her pleasure even as she lay unconscious. He would ruin her for all other men.

A last thread of sanity prevented him from getting up to approach her. It was his will, which was feircely strong, even under these conditions. He often cursed the intensity of it, for it had kept him alive after things which ought properly to have killed him, but now, perhaps, it was a blessing. He really didn't want to risk impregnating any woman, even a whore, with whatever sort of seed now existed in his loins. God only knew what sort of monstrosities she would give birth to. Just as he would not lower himself to poison chidren, he could not bring himself to sire an innocent baby with the curse he was forced to exist under.

Even if he could not let himself have her, though, it was good just to gaze at a woman, at the way she moved her legs, and her hips, and her eyes, and simply sit back enjoying the feeling of hardness between his legs, as he took another sip of wine. There was a pleasure, of sorts, in the anticipation of sex, just as there was in it's fulfillment. He supposed his balls would hurt in the morning, but he did not care. He had survived infinitely worse pain.

Her eyes were the best feature on her, he decided. Large and dark blue. The same color as the twilight sky, or the robes that wizards of his country wore. They looked almost like her eyes... in the dim light he could pretend that they were exactly the same, that the miracle had happened, and the past 15 years had been erased, and she had come back to him.

He was roused from his fantasy by an unpleasant jolt to his magical senses as the door opened and an unpleasant looking man swaggered in. He choked. The prostitute was not her, after all. It would never be her, not ever, ever again.

As for this man who had come in, the wizard did not like the looks of him. He felt along the pathways the magical jolt had awakened in him. This man had the Dark Mark! The wizard felt fury rise in him, and quickly fought it down with another gulp of the drink. It really would not do to lose control of himself, in front of so many people. He was not ready to show his entire hand, yet.

It would not do to be drunk, either, with a Death Eater around. Surreptitiously gripping his wand, he cast a simple sobriety charm on himself. His head cleared immediately, and the hardness between his legs subsided slightly, though not by much. Perhaps it was the memories that had caused his arousal, just as much as the drink. It didn't matter. He needed a clear head when around this sort of magical vermin.

Slumping over in his seat as if still drunk, the wizard watched as the Death Eater who entered ordered a large mug of Firewhiskey for himself. It was far more than he ought to have drunk, and after getting a refill, the Death Eater got up and approached the prostitute. She seemed to know him, because whatever it was he had proposed to her, was rejected with some angry shouting. He didn't take rejection well, however. Seizing her by one wrist, he began dragging her towards the rear exit of the bar, which opened into an isolated alley.

The bartender began shouting at the Death Eater, who raised his wand threateningly, and said something that made him cringe backwards. The rest of the people in the bar looked frightened, but seemed to know the Death Eater, and tried to pay attention to their drinks, or the cracks in the wall, rather than to the abduction happening in front of them.

Seeing no further opposition, the Death Eater opened the door with an 'Alohamora' spell, and shoved the prostitute through it. She stumbled into the alley, falling and scraping the skin of one bare knee. The wizard heard her cry of pain and fancied he could smell the sharp tang of blood, all the way from where he sat. The hooker stumbled to her feet and tried to run away, but the Death Eater had caught up with her by now. He seized her and flung her violently against the alley wall, before shutting the door behind them with another spell.

Then the screaming started.

It stopped in barely a moment, as the bartender cast 'Silencio' around the door. A few of the other people in the bar looked uncomfortable, but did not seem inclined to intervene. They did not want to incur the wrath of Lord Voldemort by interfering with one of his minions. Truth be told, most of them were inclined to dark wizardry themselves, and really didn't give a damn about the fate of a cheap tart. At least it was not them out there in the alley.

The wizard shifted in his seat uncomfortably. The man he had once been, a long time ago, would not have sat back while this happened. He had fought against evil, with far worse odds. But now he no longer really cared about other human beings. Why should he? They did not care about him. And who really gave a damn if one English wizard killed another. They were so completely unable to get along that they would probably be extinct in a few more generations anyways.

Then he thought what she would say, if she were here. She wasn't, but the prostitute had looked a lot like her. And despite her profession, she might be loved by someone, somewhere. If not now, then perhaps in her past or future.

The wizard shook his head, not really knowing what moved him, as he got up from his booth. Now he was going to have to go and do something stupid. Well, perhaps it was time to send a message to his enemies. If he could frighten them enough, he might be able to panic them into making a mistake that would aid his quest.

That's how he justified it anyways. The thought that he might have far more humanity left than he thought, even after what he had done to himself, was one he did not want to even consider.

He strode towards the door with a determined look. This actually drew far more looks from the other customers at the bar than the Death Eater's abduction of the hooker had. They were different sorts of looks, however. They looked at him as though he were a madman.

Which he supposed he was, in a way. Anyone would be mad after going through the things that he had.

He flung the door open with a violent gesture that actually tore it off one of it's hinges. The Death Eater was only a few yards down the alley. He was still dressed, save for a partly unbuttoned shirt, but the hooker he had pinned against the wall with a Petrifucus Totalis spell was naked. The Death Eater had cut her clothes off with a small, sharp dagger, pressing deep as he did so, so that the dagger cut her skin as well as her clothes. Rivulets of blood dripped down, scarlet against skin that was pure, ivory white. The same shade that hers had been. The sight aroused him, which he did not at all enjoy. The things he had done to himself had given him a definite sadistic bent. He enjoyed the sight of others suffering. But he still felt guilt over it. Perhaps it would have been easier if he were even more of a monster. At least then there would be no guilt.

He gazed at the sight, mesmerized, for a moment, but was roused by the sound of the woman whimpering as the Death Eater peeled a slice of skin from her nipple. Apparently the Death Eater had used a variant of the Petrificus spell that left his victim able to use the muscles in her throat and higher. The wizard watched as she glanced towards him, and looked even more frightened. Perhaps the sights before him had caused his eyes to start to change, then. Well, let them.

Approaching the Death Eater he shouted with 15 years of fury in his voice. "STOP THAT!"

The death eater glanced at him. Being staggering drunk, he saw something odd about the wizard before him, but it really didn't register in his alcohol besotted brain.

"Get out of here." He slurred at the wizard. "If you know what's good for you. If you want a peice of this tail, then by all means stand in line. But I expect it'll be a bit cold before it's your turn. But Necro ain't bad either, so long as it's fresh. After a couple days, forget it."

The wizard actually spent a few moments trying to decipher what this meant, and was quite disgusted when he figured it out.

"I said to STOP!" He told the Death Eater.

"Fuck you." The Death Eater turned from the hooker anddrew his wand, pointing itin a threatening manner. "D'you know who I am? I'm Rodolphus LeStrange. And if you don't know that name, let me tell you that I'm not someone you want to be bothering. I got powerful friends, if you know what I mean."

The Death Eater gestured toward his left arm, indicating the Dark Mark covered by his sleeve. "Now, since I'm in a good mood for getting this bit of pussy, I'll give you a couple of choices. You either leave and mind your own business, or you stand in line and wait for your turn, or I'll kill you, and after I'm done with her, I'll try out that tight looking ass of yours. I've never had it that way before, but hey, I'm not real prejudiced when I'm this drunk."

It was scarcely a moment before Rodolphus realized that this was a mistake. The change which had been creeping over the wizard since he entered the alley, now completely overtook him. Even in his drunken state, and in the dim light, Rodolphus now saw that the eyes of this wizard were not the eyes of anything even remotely human. Lord Voldemort's eyes sometimes looked this strange, but in a different way, and he was used to the Dark Lord. He had never seen anything like the eyes in the wizard before him ever again. He whimpered and backed away. The erection he had had while cutting up the prostitute rapidly deflated as he wet himself.

"WHEN I TOLD YOU TO STOP," The wizard before him roared. "IT WAS NOT A REQUEST!"

Frightened, and unable to think of any really clever spells, Rodolphus took his wand and fell back on an old standard.

"Avada Kadavra!"

A green light flashed, but before it could reach the wizard, there was a loud crack of him apparating, and he vanished before the lethal spell could hit him. Rodolphus was even more frightened for a moment. No way. No-one could move and apparate that fast. No-one. But at least the wizard was gone. He shook his head. Maybe it was just the booze, making the wizard seem to move faster than he really did. Perhaps he could get back to his business with the hooker. Or maybe just leave. He laughed weakly, and turned around to see what the whore against the wall was doing.

The wizard was standing there, in front of her.

"No, no, you..." Rodolphus pointed his wand at him. With an impatient gesture, the wizard waved his own wand, and Rodolphus's vanished from his hand, along with a large slice of skin.

"My wand! Where is my wand? Give it back, you freak!" Despite his fear, his drunkeness and rage made him incautious.

"Your wand is now in the center of the earth, burnt to ashes." The wizard informed him. "Perhaps you'd like to join it."

"No, no." Rodulphus noted that somehow, during the few seconds his back had been turned to them, the wizard had silently removed the Petrificus spell the prostitute had been under. She was now creeping away as stealthily as she could manage. Both the wizard and Rodolphus ignored her. By mutual agreement, she was no longer a participant in the current proceedings.

"No, no, I don't want to go to the center of the Earth." Rodolphus whimpered. "What do you want. Tell me what you want, anything, and I'll do it."

Though, he added silently, he would get his revenge as soon as he told Lord Voldemort about this.

"Good, I'm glad you're being cooperative now." The wizard said, his jovial tone contradicting the inhuman eyes in his face. "I want you to bring a message to your master."

"You mean Voldemort?" The wizard nodded his confirmation. "Yeah, sure, I can do that. Any message you want, I'll tell him for you."

"You won't need to tell him. You just need to bring it to him."

"Yeah, okay, right." Anything to satisfy this freak and get the hell out of here.

"Good. Then take off your clothes."

"What?" Rodolphus actually did not undertand the request, so unexpected was it.

"I said," The wizard repeated patiently, but a dangerous undertone entered his voice. "Take off your clothes. All of them."

Rodolphus was not sure of what was going on. Did the wizard mean to rape him? He didn't seem the type. Before he had started freaking out, Rodolphus had seen him growphysically arousedat the sight of the bleeding whore, who was now gone from the alley, but who knew? Perhaps he swung both ways. It would not be enjoyable, having this freak rape him, but it would be survivable, at least. Better than being apparated to the lava core at the center of the Earth, anyways. And revenge would be sweet.

Rodolphus took off all his clothes, except his shoes and socks. The wizard did not seem to mind this.

"Turn around," He instructed Rodolphus, who was now quite certain what the wizard meant to do. He turned around, and bent over slightly, presenting himself for the act he expected to follow shortly.

Which was not what happened.

"What are you doing?" The wizard said in annoyance."Straighten up. I can't see you."

Completely confused, Rodolphus straightened up. He could hardly be raped in this position. But if this freak did not want to rape him, then what the hell did he want? To have him repeatedly take his clothes off and put them back on again while he watched the performance. He supposed that was no stranger than some of the things he did himself.

The wizard meanwhile studied Rodolphus's flabby back and quivering, white buttocks with something like disgust. How could this Death Eater imagine that anyone would find him desirable, even if they had been gay? Which he most certainly wasn't.

Still, the flab was all to the good. Rodolphus's large size would make it easier to do what he was going to do.

He took out his wand and pointing it at Rodolphus's back, waved it in a short, slashing gesture. Immediately, Rodolphus howled in pain. Bloodgushed down his back, far more than had come from the far cleaner cuts he had made on the prostitute. Had it been only a few minutes before? It seemed like an eternity.

Gasping in pain, Rodolphus spun around helplessly a few times, trying to feel what had happened to him. He had had Bella whip him on several occasions. He was a mashochist as well as a sadist. The whippings hurt a great deal, but this was far worse. He managed to get a finger in one end of the wound, and turned white when he felt the knobby hardness of his own ribs near within the depths of it. Gorge rose in him, and he turned around again once more, just in time to see the wizard dropping a thick, reddish scrap of flesh from his hands onto the slimy pavement of the alley, where he stepped on it with a contempful gesture.

"What... what did you do to me?" Rodolphus croaked.

"I apparated a peice of flesh off your back." The wizard explained in a dry voice, as if discussing arithmantic theory. "It isn't hard, if you have the aptitude. Now turn around so I can cauterize it. I don't want you bleeding to death, and I have to do that several more times."

"You, you said you just wanted me to bring a message to Lord Voldemort."

"And so I did. But I didn't say how." The wizards eyes had become normal again, as if some demon within him were pacified by the atrocity he was committing. "I'm going to carve it into your back, and let your master read it."

Rodolphus turned and tried to flee, but didn't get far. The wizard behind him raised his wand almost lazily, and cast Petrificus Totalis on him, just as he had done himself on the whore. But unlike the spell he had used, this one left him unable to scream. Stopped in midstride, he fell to the ground, the cobblestones breaking his nose, two of his fingers, and five of his teeth.

The wizard strode almost lazily to where Rodolphus lay. "And here I thought you were going to cooperate. Well, I will just have to do this the hard way."

And then thepain truly started. It seemed to last for hours, though it was actually less than five minutes. Rodolphus wished he could lose consciousness or go mad, anything to stop the agony slicing one relentless letter at a time across his back. But neither came. Eventually, he stopped wishing for either. He lay face down for nearly an hour, only dimly aware that the addition of newwhite-hot slashes across his fleshhad stopped, and that he was now alone. When he became aware that his tormentor had left, he raised himself up slightly with his arms, and promptly vomitted. His fingers scrabbled at the slick cobblestones, and a sharp corner from one of them ripped through one of the nails, peeling it off. This pain was even worse than that in his back, thanks to the concentration of nerve ending in the hands. Rodolphus made a barely audible mewling noise, his pupils dilated with shock. He collapsed again, the acid from his stomach's contents burning into his cheek for nearly another hour, before he finally managed to stagger to his feet. Oh, someone was going to pay for this. Just wait until Voldemort found out, he would show this wizard what pain really was.

He saw his pants lying on the ground, but didn't think that he could manage to get them on in his present state. He wrapped them crudely around himself instead, thanking whatever dark gods existed that the freak had not decided to castrate him on top of everything else.Then he staggered his way into the bar. Most of the patrons who had been there before, when he had dragged the hooker into the alley were gone now, but the bartender gave him a very surprised and alarmed look. No doubt he had expected the strange wizard to be the one bleeding or worse. The bartender came over, offering some sort of aid, but Rodolphus couldn't understand what he was saying, and pushed him angrily away.

The agonized Death Eater managed to make his way into the bathroom of the tavern. He spat blackish gobs of blood and a few splinters of teeth into the sink, and had to make several attempts before he was able to turn the faucet. Damn, he wished he had his wand right now. He splashed water on his face, rinsing blood off his skin and out of his mouth.He needed to get the bartender or someone to get Bella or floo him home or something. He needed a mediwizard, or to go to bed. Or something. Though he most definitely didn't need to be whipped by Bella for the next year.

It then occured to him to wonder just what message that damned wizard had carved into his back, that he was so insistent that he show to Lord Voldemort. Rodolphus turned around, and craned his head, despite the pain, trying to see his own back in the mirror. It was not a pretty sight. The message itself was hard to make out. His entire back was covered with crusted blood, and he could see the whitish lumps of his own rib bones at the bottom of some of the letters carved higher on his back. He had to turn several times, and spell the whole thing out, letter by letter. He finally got it deciphered, though, and despite the pain, began to laugh.

It was senseless. It didn't mean anything. Or maybe it did, and only Lord Voldemort would understand it. Regardless, it was something written by a crazy person.

In inch-deep letters, flayed from the flesh on the back of one of the most sadistic Death Eaters, lay the message of the wizard to Lord Voldemort, spelled out one runic letter at a time:

"WHERE IS IT?"


	9. Chapter 9

November 17, 1996. Hogwart's Castle.

Severus Snape had been summoned by the Dark Lord three days ago, and had only now been dismissed and permitted to return. He was so weakened by his treatment at Voldemort's hands that he was barely able to apparate to the borders of the wards that surrounded Hogwarts.Snape collapsed immediately after doing so, and like so many other times, picked himself up off the ground after an indeterminate length of time, and staggering and crawling, made his way to the Headmaster's office.

He summoned Madame Pomfrey, of course, who treated him for the Cruciatus, and other scarcely less unpleasant curses. She shook her head in silent disapproval as she did so. There was only so much punishment a human being could be expected to take. For the life of her, she did not know why Albus kept sending the poor potionsmaster back to that brute, Voldemort. She knew he had ways of hiding people from Voldemort, if he wanted to.

Snape's body quivered in pain as the curses were removed. There were several large bruises and cuts on him as well, indicating that either Voldemort himself, or one of his appointed minions had indulged in mundane physical, as well as magical forms of torture. Albus looked at it and guessed that it was probably either MacNair or one of the LeStranges. Though it could have been any of the Death Eaters, really. They all had a sadistic bent that was encouraged by the Dark Lord.

"What happened, Severus?" Albus asked. The punishment inflicted on the Potions Master was far worse than it had been for some time, which indicated that Voldemort was extremely displeased about something. It obviously could not be the discovery that Snape was a double agent, or the potions master would not merely be punished, he would be dead. Had he perhaps, found out about the Horcrux memories of his early years Albus had so carefully collected for nearly half a century? That would be very bad, and put not only himself, but young Harry Potter in extremely grave danger.

Snape looked up, slightly resentful that Albus could not even wait 12 hours, after he had had a chance to be treated by Pomfrey and get a little bit of sleep, to begin his interrogation. In his own way, Albus used him just as brutally as Voldemort did. He could not be too angry, though. If it were not for the headmaster, he would have long since felt the Dementor's kiss in some dark cell of Azkaban.

"The Dark Lord is furious, Albus." He told the headmaster, wincing as Madam Pomfrey swabbed some stinging sort of potion onto a cut on his arms.

"I can see that." Albus nodded sadly.

"I have not seen him this angry since he discovered what Lucius Malfoy did with..." He trailed off, glancing at Madame Pomfrey. "Did with the you-know-what three and a half years ago."

Albus crossed his arms and looked thoughtful for a moment. Madame Pomfrey said nothing at Snape and Dumbledore's references to things they did not want to speak about in her presence. She was used to it, and was probably safer not knowing about whatever it was they were referring to.

"What is he angry about. Has something similiar to what occured at that time happened again?" He could only be so lucky. He was nearly certain that Voldemort had made several different arrangements to preserve his life, and they would all have to be dealt with if he were to be killed.

"No." Snape shook his head. "We should only be so lucky. What happened was either a random attack by some madman, or more likely an overly enthusiastic auror. I don't know. Neither does the Dark Lord, or anyone else. But whoever it was, the Dark Lord is determined to find him. He wants him dead. Preferably in a painful as manner as possible."

"Wants who dead? Severus, you're not making any sense. What happened?"

Snape shook his head wearily. The Dark Lord had shown all his followers what happened, before interrogated all of them in a painful manner. It availed him nothing. It was not possible to get information from people about something they knew nothing whatsoever about. He turned back to Albus. "Some... maniac... for lack of a better word, carved up Rodolphus LeStrange like a Christmas goose. The Dark Lord showed us what happened. First he showed us LeStrange, who still looked like a peice of raw meat after the healers had been working on him for three days. Then he showed us LeStrange's memory in a pensieve. Albus, as much as it galls me to admit it, I do agree with the Dark Lord on one matter. The wizard who did this needs to die. Not as painfully as possible, but as fast as possible. He is an extremely dangerous man. Almost as dangerous as the Dark Lord himself."

Albus pressed his healthy hand against his withered one in a pensive gesture. "Knowing you as I do, Severus, I know that you would not say such a thing lightly. What did you see, that disturbs you so?"

Snape thought back to the gruesome sights the Dark Lord had forced all of his followers to see. He had promised great rewards to whichever Death Eater brought him back the wizard who had done this, and terrible things to anyone who failed to do so.

"Well, first of all," He began, "LeStrange was not carved up at random. The wizard carved a message into his back, and told LeStrange to go show it do Lord Voldemort."

"What did it say? Anything significant?"

"Well, that's the strange part." Snape said. "The message was meaningless. It said "Where is it?" Even the Dark Lord didn't know what it was supposed to mean. Where is what? It could mean anything under the sun."

"Very strange indeed. Why go to so much trouble to inquire where something is, but not specify what it is you are looking for. Unless the person you are speaking to already knows what you are talking about, or you believe that they should." Dumbledore mused. "But do go on."

"It gets weirder." Snape said. "This wizard did not use a knife, or any of the usual spells to cut up LeStrange. Instead he apparated strips of flesh right off his back..."

"Apparated them, you say?" Albus interrupted, pouncing on this bit of information like a cat on a bird.

"Yes, why, is it important?" Snape knew Albus well enough to know that the man had genius level intelligence and a broad range of information on a vast variety of subject.

"Quite possibly." Albus said. "I've heard of something similiar being done, once before, a very long time ago. Tell me more. Did this wizard do anything else involving apparating?"

"As a matter of fact he did." Snape said, fully aware that the Headmaster apparently knew far more about this matter than he was telling, in order to ask such specific questions. "According to LeStrange, he tried to cast the Avada Kadavra curse on this wizard, and he apparated right out of the path of the curse. Albus, I saw LeStrange's memory of it in the pensieve. He was drunk at the time, but not so drunk that he was hallucinating. I've never seen anyone apparate that fast at a moment's notice. Not even you."

"Indeed. I am a very powerful wizard in most regards, Severus, but there are those who are more skilled than I am in certain particular areas. Voldemort, for instance, knows far more about certain of the Dark Arts. So it is entirely within the realm of possibility that there may be those better than I am at Apparating. But do go on. Did he do any other apparating?"

"Yes." The potions master nodded. "When he apparated out of the pathway of the Avada Kadavra spell, LeStrange thought he had left permanently. Instead he had only moved a few feet, behind Rodolphus's back, and when Rodolphus tried to curse him again, he apparated the wand right out of his hand. According to him, the wizard apparated it to the center of the Earth, and threatened to Apparate Rodolphus there as well."

"Curiouser and curiouser." Albus mused. He was now quite certain that he knew where this wizard must have come from, or at the very least, had studied there. Thinking further, he thought that this might be the same wizard who had caused such a disturbance a few months ago, by mapping Hogwarts castle. If you were looking for something, and this wizard apparently was, one smart step to take in finding it was to get a map of whatever places you thought it might be. "You said before that you agreed with the Dark Lord that this wizard should die, Severus. Why is that? I hardly think it's because you feel sorry for Rodolphus Lestrange. And I don't think that someone deserves to die because they are good at Apparating."

"No." Severus thought back to Lestrange's memories. They had been damned hard to take. The nightmares he had gotten from them for the past three nights had almost been worse than the pain the Dark Lord had inflicted on him. Almost. "Suffice it to say, Albus, that this wizards particular skill at Apparating is among the LEAST disturbing things about him."

"Then there is more to this story? You must tell me everything. It is very important."

"Well, where should I begin." Madame Pomfrey had finished with Snape's back now, and silently guided him to sit up so she could treat a deep cut along his shin. "Perhaps I should mention that this wizard apparently attacked LeStrange in the first place, because he objected to the fact that LeStrange was in the process of torturing, raping, and killing a Knockturn Alley prostitute. Not necessarily in that order."

Madame Pomfrey made a disgusted noise at this, earning herself a sneer from Snape.

"So he rescued her. I quite fail to see why that is disturbing, Severus."

"You didn't see the penseive memory, Albus. I did. It's true he rescued her, but..." Snape trailed off, trying to think of a way to explain the matter to the headmaster. Despite his great wisdom, Albus could be remarkably naive about some things. "I've spent enough time with the most twisted Death Eaters to be able to recognize a sadist when I see one, Albus. And this wizard was a sadist, of the worst sort. He got, umm, physically aroused, at the sight of the prostitute being tortured. It's true he rescued her, but he also enjoyed what was happening to her, at least on some level. He was also aroused the entire time he was torturing LeStrange. I would say that he is as much a sadist as LeStrange himself."

"I see. He has a dark nature, but it seems he is fighting it. He did rescue the woman, after all, rather than hurting her. As for what he did to LeStrange, I'm afraid that as much as I would like to, I can't feel much sympathy for the man. Is there anything else?"

"Yes." Snape blinked for a long moment, recalling what was, in some ways, the worst part of LeStrange's memory. "There were his eyes."

"His eyes?"

"The eyes are a window to the soul, Headmaster. You taught me that. And this man's eyes changed, when he got angry at LeStrange. I saw them in the Penseive, Albus. They weren't human. Not any more than the Dark Lord's eyes are. They were different than the Dark Lord's. I've never really seen or heard of anything like them, before. But it wasn't good, whatever it was. This wizard has done something to himself, some sort of Dark Magic, as bad as what the Dark Lord has done or worse."

"Dear Merlin." The use of Dark Magic on onself was not good. It gradually ate away at the soul, eventually leaving nothing more than a ravening, uncontrollable beast that could only be put down like a rabid dog. It would happen to Voldemort, someday, though he would hurt far too many people first, before descending into mindlessness. Then Albus asked, though he didn't really want to know. "What did his eyes look like, exactly. Can you describe them?"

"I can't. There's no words..." For some reason he did not understand, Snape found himself crying. He wiped away the tears and forced them to stop. "I can only show you in a penseive, what I saw from LeStrange's memory. Perhaps you've seen something like it before. I never have. And I hope to Merlin I never do again."

"I think that the Pensieve can wait until morning, Severus." Dumbledore said. "Let Poppy help you over to the bed, and get some sleep. I think you've more than earned it."

"Yes." He leaned on the sturdy mediwitch as he hobbled to the hospital bed, which was quite large and comfortable enough to sleep on.

"Albus, there is one more thing you should know." He said as he lay down on the bed. "The Dark Lord told me to tell you all this, about LeStrange's memory and what happened. He still believes I am loyal to him, and wants me to give you certain bits of information in order to trick you into believing that I am working for you. He doesn't really care about you knowing LeStrange was attacked, it's hardly information that could be used against him. And he thought that if you knew about it, perhaps you would know something that you would tell me, and I could report back to him. He's determined to see whatever wizard did this killed, and will use anything to accomplish that goal, even information from you. Is there anything you want me to tell him next time I am summoned?"

Albus considered this. "Tell him that I am quite puzzled by the matter. Butter up his ego by telling him that since he knows far more about the Dark Arts than I do, if he does not know who this wizard is and what he has done to himself, there is only a slim likelihood that I would know it."

Snape bowed his head in silent agreement. The Dark Lord always enjoyed praise, and he could use Occlumency to convince him that it was sincerely meant.

"Just one more thing, Severus. When you were viewing LeStrange's memory, I assume this wizard spoke, since he told Lestrange where he had apparated his wand to. When he did, did he have an accent of any kind?"

Snape looked sharply at Dumbledore. How had the old man known that? It was frightening sometimes, how the Headmaster knew far more than he ever told. "Yes he did. A pretty thick one, too. An Australian accent. How did you know that?"

"A Gibsonite, then." Albus said, half to himself. "I thought as much."

Snape's eyes widened in realization. The wizards from the Gibson Desert in Australia were well known as the best Apparators, by far, in the wizarding world. They had to be. They apparated in almost all of their water from a few lakes hundreds of miles distant from where they lived. They were so good at it that one of their few exports were highly trained apparators to provide transportation services to other wizarding countries. "If that's true, then I can see why he would hate the Dark Lord and his followers. After what the Dark Lord tried to do to them. But if he is a Gibsonite, why would he ask the Dark Lord pointless questions? Why not just simply kill him, or at the very least, his followers?"

Albus gave a little smile, but said nothing, merely raising his healthy hand as he departed. What he had instructed Severus to tell Voldemort was not entirely a lie. Although he now was certain of where this peculiar wizard was from, and the wizards there were far less pleasant and far more given to various eccentricities and immoral practices than he would have liked, they were not generally given to overt violence, or practicing the worst forms of the Dark Arts, particularily on their own precious selves. That one of them should be a sadist who had corrupted himself to such an extent was, indeed, quite puzzling. This wizard was either a very evil, or a very desperate man. And the latter could be far more dangerous, to everyone concerned. He would have to request more aurors from the ministry, to help safeguard Hogwarts. And while he was at it, he would use some of his contacts in Knockturn Alley to locate this prostitute the wizard had rescued from LeStrange and get her somewhere safe, before Rodolphus recovered enough to hunt her down and finish what he had started.


	10. Chapter 10

November 22, 1996. Voldemort's Lair.

Voldemort gave Snape only a few days to recover from what he had done to him at their last meeting before he summoned him again. Snape dared not refuse the summons of the burning Dark Mark, not without a very good reason, which he was not feeling well enough to think of.

Besides which, Dumbledore had spoken to him again during the past few days giving him specific instructions to respond promptly next time the Dark Lord demanded his presence, and precisely what bits of information he should and should not share with him. They discussed other things as well, which as usual led to a great deal of shouting. The shouting matches were become increasingly frequent this year. He had agreed to do what Dumbledore had told him to do, but that did not mean he always had to like it. And there were more and more things the Headmaster demanded of him that he did not like at all. As usual, the Headmaster came out on top in these shouting matches, simply reminding Snape quietly of the promises he had made, rather than raising his voice at all.

So, as soon as Snape felt the Dark Mark burn on his arm, he put on his Death Eater robes, and mask in hand, Apparated to the location the Dark Mark led him to. Voldemort was there, sitting in an ancient, overstuffed armchair. It had once been upholstered with a vivid, emerald green velvet, fit for a Slytherin king. Time and the elements, however, had faded it to a shade that was closer to yellow. A fitting shade, Snape thought absently, for whatever sort of half-living parasite the Dark Lord had now become. Voldemort looked at him sharply as the thought flitted through his head, reminded Snape to take care to conceal such disloyal thoughts while in the Dark Lord's presence.

"It is good that you came, Severus." the Dark Lord whispered at him in a menacing voice. "I have a number of matters to discuss with you."

Snape bowed very low, his forehead nearly touching the floor. "I am yours to command, my lord."

"Perhaps." The Dark Lord regarded Snape with slitted red eyes. As always, he found the Potion's Master to be something of an enigma. It was hard to divine his thoughts. But Snape had thus far not been proven to be a traitor, as Bellatrix claimed. And he was not inclined to take Bellatrix's word about anything just now, since she had made the ridiculous assertion several days ago that Snape was somehow responsible for the mutilation of her husband, Rodolphus. Voldemort was not entirely certain why Bellatrix was so upset about the matter, since she herself had whipped and otherwise injured her husband numerous times in the peculiar rituals that passed for sex in the LeStrange household. Perhaps she felt that no-one other than herself had the right to do such a thing to her husband. Pushing aside thoughts of the sado-masochism of the LeStrange couple, Voldemort turned his full attention to the submissive Potions Master before him.

"Tell me, Severus. How does Draco Malfoy fare these days. Does he miss his father?"

Severus considered the question quickly with a mind which was far superior to the Dark Lord's. There was a hidden trap in the questions. Of that he was certain. There almost always was, with anything Voldemort asked. He could not let the Dark Lord know precisely how poorly Draco was doing. Nor could he let him know that Draco missed his father to an almost unbearable extent. Voldemort would interpret either as unforgivable weakness, and likely have Draco killed.

"Draco could be doing slightly better than he is." Severus said, choosing his words carefully. "I don't believe that he is getting enough sleep. I don't know why. He often seems tired during the day. I have been providing him with Pepper-up and enervate potions, which seem to be helping him somewhat. As for his father, he does not mention him that often, and grows angry when others do. I believe he is ashamed of the manner in which Lucius failed so completely in your service."

Voldemort nodded, to Snape's relief. He drew the conclusions Snape wanted him to, which were that Draco was working very hard indeed on the tasks he had been given, and was extremely loyal, determined not to fail as his father had, so he could redeem his family's honor in the eyes of the Dark Lord. He was not likely to succeed in those tasks, of course. He was not meant to succeed. But if he died while still loyal, he might possibly ensure the safety of his mother.

"Very good, Severus." The Dark Lord said. "Continue to provide Draco with the potions which you have been. If they do not prove effective, then brew something stronger for him. But make sure that that fool, Dumbldore, does not find out."

"Yes, my Lord." Snape prostrated himself, and remained there. The Dark Lord would speak again or dismiss him when he saw fit. He was forced to stay in the uncomfortable position for over a minute while the Dark Lord regarded him.

"You may rise, Severus." The Dark Lord finally said. "There is another matter I wish to discuss with you."

"Of course, your Lordship." Snape got to his feet, but kept his head bowed. It was a sign of subservience, but more importantly, helped conceal his eyes and his thoughts from Voldemort.

"Did you speak to Dumbledore about the wizard who attacked Rodolphus Lestrange, as I commanded you?"

"Of course, my Lord." Snape nodded. "Since you ordered me to. He would have found out about it anyways. He has many sources of information."

"Yes." Voldemort sneered. "And what was his opinion on the matter? Did he know anything which I do not?"

"He knew very little, my Lord. You must forgive me for not being able to get very much useful information from that sentimental fool on this matter, but the fact is that despite his much-exaggerated wisdom, he knows relatively little about the more useful of the Dark Arts. You know far more about such matters than he does. Or than anyone else does, I would say."

"That is true." The Dark Lord permitted himself to bask in the praise for a moment. "What did he have to say on the matter, Severus?"

"I conversed with him about several times, during the past few days." Severus said, showing the Dark Lord that he was quite vehement in his service. "But learned very little. He does not believe that this was a rogue auror, from the Ministry of Magic. He does not believe that this wizard was even from England, but rather is a Gibsonite, from Australia."

"I had come to the same conclusion myself, based on the accent in Rodolphus's memories." Voldemort hissed. "And they are very skilled Apparators over there. But why would he come here?"

Snape shrugged. "Well, you did send your followers to attack them at one time, my Lord. And they did kill a number of people and destroy their school. It is my belief, and Dumbledore agrees with me, that he has a grudge of some kind."

"After all this time?" Voldemort began to look angry. "Why come now, when the whole world knows I have been restored to power. Why not attack when I was nearly killed by that filth, Harry Potter. I was weak, less than a ghost. If he had a grudge, why did he not seize his chance and attack my Death Eaters then? Why wait until now?"

"I don't know, my Lord. Perhaps he is insane." Snape struggled to conceal from the Dark Lord the numerous speculations Dumbledore had had on the matter. "It is common knowledge that the Gibsonites are highly eccentric wizards. It would not be surprising if one of them slipped down into complete madness."

"For a madman, he is remarkably skilled, would you not say, Severus?"

"Yes, my Lord. He is very good at Apparating, at least."

"That is not all he is good at!" Voldemort snarled. "I have been reviewing the memory I took from Rodolphus. I've looked at it dozens of times, studying this wizard, attempting to learn all I could about him. I've seen his eyes. The way they changed. They are the eyes of someone who has used great skill at the Dark Arts to grant himself great power."

"Yes, Dumbledore said much the same thing. However he feels that whatever it is this wizard has done to himself is to be condemned."

"Dumbledore is a weakling!" The Dark Lord sneered. "If he had any balls, and did not fear to take the power so easily availiable to him, he could have destroyed me long ago. But he would rather remain 'pure'. He keeps himself weak, and everyone around him weak as well, out of his simpering fears."

Voldemort got up from the chair and began striding around the room. It was not a good sign, he generally did so when he was well on his way to becoming infuriated. Snape said nothing, hoping that the Dark Lord would work out his anger though his venomous words.

"This wizard who attacked Rodolphus has power." Voldemort said to Snape. "Great power. I am not certain of what kind, yet. I have never heard of a wizard with eyes precisely like the ones he had. Neither have any of my followers. I have ordered all of them to review every book they own on the Dark Arts, to see if there is a description of anything like this. I now order you to do the same, Severus."

"Yes, my lord." If a boring review of several books he already knew by heart was all the Dark Lord demanded of him today, he would be getting off very easily.

"As I said, though, I have not heard of anything exactly like this, before. And I know more about the Dark Arts than any wizard alive. So it may be that this is some new thing, some new form of the Dark Arts." He glanced at Snape.

"That is possible, my Lord. The Dark Arts are continually changing and evolving." As was all magic, he thought deep within himself. But it would not do to let Voldemort ever see that insight within him.

"If it is some new form of the Dark Arts, " Voldemort said to Severus. "Then I must know what it is. I must have this power for myself, whatever it is. This wizard must be made to tell me. I have changed my mind about wanting him dead. I want him brought to me alive, so he can share his secrets with me. If any Death Eaters kill him, I will make what this wizard did to Rodolphus look like child's play. Do I make myself clear?"

"Quite clear, my Lord." Merlin help them all if this Wizard turned up dead somehow. Voldemort would pick one of more of his Death Eater servants to blame for it. Then he dared a question. "If I might ask, my Lord, how do you intend to catch this wizard? He apparates so quickly, I would think it would be rather difficult to do so."

Voldemort looked at him coldly, and Snape drew in his breath, preparing himself for the Crucio curse. But it never came. His gamble paid off. "As usual, you have much wisdom, despite your unfortunate ancestry, Severus. This is a good point. Such a skilled Apparator would be very hard to catch. Let me think for a moment."

Voldemort sat back down on the faded armchair. Severus said nothing while he permitted the evil wizard before him to think.

"If he cannot be captured by force, then he must somehow be persuaded to come and see me." Voldemort finally decided. "He wants something, or claims he does. I don't know what it is, but I must find out. Once I have, I will get it, whatever it is, and offer it to him, in exchange for his knowledge of the Dark Arts."

"What if it is something you can't obtain? Or something that doesn't exist? He is a madman, after all, my Lord." Snape pointed out. "For all you know, he wants a peice of Saturn's rings or something equally impossible."

"It is of no matter." Voldemort waved Snape's concerns away. "Once I find out what it is, even if I cannot get it, I will tell him that I do have it, regardless. If necessary, I will use illusions or other magic to convince him that I have whatever it is. By the time he finds out I don't have it, it will be too late for him."

"I see." Snape was not certain whether this wizard was the type who could be fooled by trickery and lies, but did not say so. "It seems a very clever plan, my Lord."

"Yes, even more clever than another plan I have come up with, of late."

"Another plan, my Lord?" It was slightly risky for Snape to question the Dark Lord, but he knew from experience that Voldemort enjoyed the opportunity to boast. How he had ever gotten into Slytherin, with so little discretion, was beyond Snape. It must have been a combination of his ancestry and his ambitions.

"Yes, this wizard has inspired me. Severus. He does not sit and wait for fate to deliver to him what it is that he wants. He goes out and DEMANDS it of the world. I have decided that I have been far too patient, of late. I have not done enough to destroy my enemies. Harry Potter should not still be alive. I am tired of waiting for chance to deliver him into my hands. I have a new plan to go out and seize him. And once I do, I shall kill him."

"Indeed." Snape's face was impassive, though he was highly alarmed. This was not good at all. He needed Harry Potter alive. Lord knew he had very little love for the boy, but he was his only chance to be free of the cancerous mark on his arm. "How are you going to get Potter, my Lord? You can hardly get him while he is in Hogwarts castle, protected by the wards there. And even when he is elsewhere, Dumbledore has seen to it that he is well guarded."

The crucio spell that hit him a moment later was entirely unexpected. Snape writhed on the floor for thirty seconds that seemed like nearly ten minutes to him, until the Dark Lord lifted the spell. By the time he could move again, his pants were thoroughly wettened under his robe.

"Do not question me for details on my plans again, Severus. If there is something you need to know, you will be told of it." The Dark Lord said harshly.

"Yes, forgive me, my Lord. I suffer from inappropriate curiousity sometimes. One does not become a potions master, or an expert at the Dark arts, without having an inquiring nature." Snape picked himself up weakly off the floor. It was a testament to the caliber of his mind that even in this state, he carefully chose his words, creating in the Dark Lord's mind a kinship between himself and Snape in the inquiring natures they both needed to become experts at various magical crafts.

"Very well. But do not ask about things that do not concern you, again." Voldemort summoned Nagini with a hiss in Parseltongue. The snake crawled up and wrapped itself around his throat. "You may go now. Do not tell anyone of what we have discussed here. I do not want that fool, Dumbledore, attempting to hide either that wizard or that idiot Potter from me."

"Of course not." Snape bowed again, before Apparating away. Oh hell, he was going to do nothing of the sort. He was going to Dumbledore immediately, well, immediately after he washed himself and got some clean garments. It would be disastrous for Voldemort to get his hands on either of them. But for the life of him, he did not know what Dumbledore was going to do. Potter was so stupid that he insisted on putting himself in danger at every turn. As for the Gibsonite Wizard, whoever he was, he was undoubtledly far more intelligent than Potter. But that was no great accomplishment. Mrs. Norris was probably far more intelligent than Potter, at least when it came to survival, which was all that ultimately mattered in the world. But he was hardly likely to let Dumbledore do anything about protecting him from Voldemort, either.

Voldemort gazed thoughtfully at the spot where Snape had vanished from. The Potions Master often asked questions that he should not have. It could just be an inquiring nature, as he said. Or it could be an attempt at treachery, as Bellatrix insisted. Severus was useful, though, for his intelligence and his Potions. It would not do to kill him unless he were proven beyond a doubt to be disloyal. Well, time would tell, eventually. He would see if Snape attempted to interfere with any of his plans.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11. Saturday, November 30, 1996

The Dark Lord's plan to capture Harry was actually quite clever. As the muggle Isaac Newton put it, 'For every action, there is an equal and opposite re-action'. Accordingly, for every strength and virtue a human being has, there is a corresponding weakness which can be exploited. The Dark Lord had come to the conclusion that the best way to attack Harry would be to exploit those very same traits which Dumbledore had spent the past five years so carefully cultivating in the boy. Harry had already demonstrated his weakness in that regard, several times. Most notably when he came charging rashly in to the Department of Mysteries when he believed that Sirius Black was in danger, never thinking that it could be a trap.

Those who do not learn from history are condemned to repeat it. Another old Muggle adage. And Harry Potter, like the great majority of English wizards, had shown in his short life a stubborn refusal to learn from History, even from his own mistakes. Voldemort had been rather delighted six months before to hear from a justifiably peeved Severus Snape that Harry Potter blamed the incidents at the Department of Mysteries not on his own rashness and stupidity, but on Snape himself. It indicated on the part of the so-called 'Chosen one' a refusal not only to learn from his own mistakes, but an unpleasant tendency to believe beautiful lies rather than an ugly truth.

The fact that the Dark Lord himself was much farther gone than Harry Potter when it came to a refusal to deal with objective reality was, of course, not something that occured to him.

But Voldemort's personal flaws were irrelevent at the moment. In the end, of course, he would pay Hell's own price for them. Despite the contentions of countless tyrants throughout the ages, of which the Dark Lord was only the latest in a very long and sordid line, reality cannot be altered by royal edict, brute force, or a democratic vote. Nor was it even to be altered by magic. Regardless of the opinions of Voldemort and many wizards on the topic, magic was in no way an 'unnatural' or 'supernatural' force, simply because most human beings were unable to use it, any more than ultraviolet light was 'un-natural' because most living creatures were unable to see it. Any force which exists in the universe is, by definition, natural, regardless of how many entities were unable to perceive and understand it. The only 'un-natural' force would be one which did not exist.

However, despite Voldemort's numerous flaws, Harry Potter was equally flawed, albeit in a different fashion. Voldemort's particular set of weaknesses in no way prevented him from exploiting those that Harry possessed. The most significant one of which was that Harry, as Hermoine had once wisely noted 'had a saving people thing'. When he saw that someone he cared for was in danger, his automatic reflex was to go charging bravely and foolishly in, without spending so much as a second thinking the situation through, to determine such things as whether the situation was actually as it appeared, or whether or not it might not be wise to get some help from older and more powerful wizards to deal with the problem. Such a course of action did not appeal to him. Not only did he have a 'saving people thing', but despite his numerous protests to the contrary, he did want glory for himself. He had displayed both personal traits consistently ever since he had entered Hogwarts at 11 years of age, and despite the fact that he had matured five years physically since then, he had matured not one whit mentally. Dumbledore attributed this to his innocence, and it indeed was that. Unfortunately in a dispassionate universe, innocence does not often count for much compared to strength and cunning when it comes to survival.

It was exploiting Harry Potter's innocence and predeliction for saving people that Voldemort was counting on. He had sent one of his Death Eaters out to purchase polyjuice potion from Borgin and Burkes. The Death Eater had not been able to obtain as much as the Dark Lord commanded him to. It seemed that there was another wizard buying large quantities of polyjuice potion over the past few months. The Dark Lord did not care about this excuse. Nor, foolishly, did he care about whom this other wizard might be, or what he might want so much polyjuice potion for. He was interested only in those things that increased his personal power. He crucio'ed the unfortunate Death Eater for several seconds on general principles, and then contented himself with the few quarts that the lackey had been able to get. It was enough for the plan he had in mind.

He put his plan into motion on the next weekend, when the older students from Hogwarts went to Hogsmeade Village. The Dark Lord had many students loyal to him in Hogwarts, even in Gryffindor house, and from these had managed to obtain several hairs and skin flakes belonging to Harry Potter's two best friends, Ron and Hermione. It wasn't difficult at all, unlike the task he had set for Draco. They simply had to cast a simply 'accio' spell at the beds those two slept in, when no-one else was present. The human body constantly shed hairs and bits of skin every hour of the day, and given that human beings spent 1/3 of their time sleeping, there were plenty of them to be found in bed linens, other than those freshly changed.

The Dark Lord regarded the two parchment envelopes that the hairs and dusty-appearing bits of skin flakes were in. It was far less than an ounce of material taken from each of Harry's friends, yet it felt oddly heavy in his hand. From such tiny things, the destiny of the entire world could easily be shaped, if things went as he intended.

He summoned several of his Death eaters before him. They all had their appointed tasks, which he had reviewed with them several times, until he was certain they understood what was required of them. Two of them were to use the polyjuice potion to disguise themselves as First Year Hogwart's students. They would arrange a distraction, to seperate Ron and Hermoine from the witless Harry Potter. Then, once the real Ron and Hermoine were off on a wild goose chase, two others, disguised as Ron and Hermoine would act as bait, luring the young Gryffindor fool into a trap.

Taking their vials of polyjuice potion, they and several other Death Eaters apparated to the outskirts of Hogsmeade Village. They took a sip from their vials, waited for a few moments through the painful transformation, then headed onto the main street where the shops were, checking their watches. Timing was important in this, it would not do for one of them to make his move in this game before the previous move had been finished.

Scarcely fifteen minutes later, Ronald Weasley was seized by the ear by his brother, George, as he was trying to finish up the last of his butterbeer. It was a gloomy day to visit Hogsmeade, with thick black clouds overhead, and it was actually cheerier in the candle-lit tavern than it was outside. Or at least it had been cheerier before his brother had come bursting in to so cruelly assualt him.

"Hey!" he protested, as the remains of his drink spilled onto his own lap.

"Hey yourself." George growled. "What's the big idea, paying that firstie to do that, Ron?"

"Paying who to do what? What are you talking about, George?"

"This firstie just came into my shop and set off a whole crate of fireworks by tossing an exploding crystal into it!" George was livid, thinking of the damages and lost profits to his Joke Shop. "The place is a damned mess. He said you gave him the Crystal and paid him a Galleon to do it, mate. So what's the big idea, brother? You jealous of the money me and Fred are making or something?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, George!" Ron protested. "I didn't pay anyone to do anything to your shop. I've just been enjoying a butterbeer with Harry and Hermione here."

"Yah, likely story." George twisted his ear, making Harry giggle under his breath as he watched it. He could tell that George was not really all that angry. The Weasleys had a broad sense of humor, and this was no more destructive than some of the pranks Fred and George had pulled at Hogwarts last year. "You come along with me, mate. You're going to help clean up the shop, and then we'll talk about how you're going to pay for the damaged goods."

"Better go with him, Ron." Hermione said, hiding a smile behind her own butterbeer. "I think he's serious."

"Yah, some friend you are."

Half pulled by his ear, Ron went stumbling after George. By the time they got to the joke shop, the supposed first year who had caused all the trouble had rendered Fred unconscious with a spell no first year ever could have known, and run off. It had not been a real first year student, of course, but the first of Lord Voldemort's polyjuiced Death Eaters. Ron and George spent several minutes trying to revive Fred, and then went to fetch a mediwizard. By the time they thought to go and tell Harry what had happened, it would be far too late.

Meanwhile Harry and Hermione were laughing it up over fresh mugs of Butterbeer.

"Poor Ron." said Harry. "With his measley allowance, he's going to be years, paying for the wrecked stuff in that shop."

"Ah, I don't think Fred and George will be that hard on him." Hermione said. "They'll probably just make him clean it up and hand over his allowance for a few weeks, then call it even. The publicity they'll get from the hubbub will mean more than enough new sales to make up for whatever was wrecked.

Just then one of the fireworks from the shop came floating by the window. It was made of white and pink sparkles, and took the shape of a woman in a muggle bikini, who waved and winked at them as the firework floated lazily past. Hermoine nearly choked on her butterbeer as she looked at it, and Harry's eyes opened wide.

"Looks like Fred and George are expanding their product line." He said after a moment. "I wonder who they're selling that sort of thing to?"

"Probably idiots in Slytherin." Hermione sniffed. "Rich idiots like Malfoy who can't attract a real girlfriend."

Harry was about to add a further derogatory comment about Malfoy when another first year student came rushing into the shop. She ran up to Hermione, huffing and puffing. The head girl recognized her as being one of the new Gryffindor students.

"Hermione, I've been looking all over for you." The small girl panted.

Not realizing that this was not a mere girl, but a disguised Death Eater, Hermione looked at her, quite concerned. "What is it, what's wrong?"

"It's Janie Bowman. She's in big trouble. Madame Rosmerta caught her trying to steal a bottle of firewhiskey by trying to hide it under her robes. Madame Rosmerta's really mad! She says she's going to call the aurors and have Janie put in Azkaban. I went to get you right away, since you're head girl. Maybe you can talk to Madame Rosmerta. Is she really going to put Janie in Azkaban?"

"For stealing a bottle of cheap wine? I don't think so. But she's going to be in big trouble with Professor McGonnagal" She got up. "I'm sorry Harry, but I better go take care of this. I have my duties, as Head Girl. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Yeah, go ahead." Harry waved her off. Of course neither of them realized that not only was the tiny first year before them a transformed Death Eater, but so was the supposed thief. As for Madame Rosmerta, she had been firmly under the Imperio spell for several months, and would keep Hermione busy long enough for the next part of Voldemorts plan to work.

Harry sat by himself for a few moments, sipping on his butterbeer. The stuff was not nearly as enjoyable without his two best friends to converse with. He took his chocolate frog card of Dumbledore out of his pocket, and looked at it for a moment. It always made him feel better when he was lonely, to have this little peice of the Headmaster with him. After a bit he put the card back in his breast pocket, got up, swallowed what was left in one large gulp, and sauntered out of the tavern to go and see what else was going on in town. Perhap's he'd head for Fred and George's joke shop, to see how thoroughly they had tonguelashed Ron. Pretty clever of him, actually, to pay someone else to pull a prank on his brothers. It was almost Slytherin-like, but Ron was no Slytherin, of course.

As Harry passed by a littered alley, he heard a muffled scream come out of it's depths. It was just loud enough for him, and no-one else farther down the street to hear.

"What's that?" The alley was rather dark, shadowed by the buildings that were close on either side, and the gloomy clouds above. He drew his wand and pointed it. "Lumos!"

Down at the end of the alley, revealed by the magical light, he saw something terrible. Ron and Hermoine were struggling in the arms of two black-robed Death Eaters. Harry was stunned for a moment, then shouted, "NO!"

Hermione bit the hand of the Death Eater who had hold of her, freeing her mouth for an instant. "Harry, run, it's a trap!" She cried.

Not realizing that the real Ron and Hermione were quite safe, although engaged in sorting out a pair of wild goose chases, Harry charged down the Alley. As Voldemort had correctly reasoned, the false Hermione's urging him to run and save himself had the precise opposite effect on Harry. Once more, he acted without thinking. Had he paused for even a moment to think, he would have noticed minor details, such as the fact that when Hermoine had shouted at him, she had a slightly different accent in her voice than she normally did, or that certain of the cobblestones that paved the ground in the alley were new, lacking the filthy patina that years of exposure to weather, footsteps, and garbage had given the rest. Harry pelted down the alley, intent on saving what he believed were his friends, from the two death eaters holding them. There were only two of them, he thought. It wasn't Lord Voldemort himself. He could surely handle this.

As his foot landed on one of the numerous carefully placed cobblestones that had replaced the originals, Harry felt a familiar tugging at his navel. He could no longer run forwards, and as he saw Hermione's frightened expression suddenly twist into a sadistic grin of triumph, he realised that it was, indeed, a trap. And he had run right into it. He had barely time to look down and regard the cobblestone that was actually a portkey before it vanished, whisking him away to Merlin only knew what sort of horrible location.

The Death eaters grinned at eachother. "It worked." The one who looked like Ron said with a cruel sneer.

"Of course it did." said the one who resembled Hermione. "I did not doubt the Dark Lord for a second. Soon enough, he will have dealt with that fool, Potter, and then we will rule the entire wizarding world. But quickly, let's clean this up and be off before the incompetents Dumbledore assigned to guard Potter come looking for him."

They quickly dispelled the enchantments on the cobblestone portkeys, and apparated away. As the Death Eater had predicted, a few moments later, two aurors came running into the alley. They had been told to watch Harry from a distance, so he would not know he was being guarded and feel confined. Dumbledore wanted the poor boy to have as normal a life as he could, despite the destiny he had. But like many other decisions Dumbledore had made, this one was now proving to be a mistake. A person guarded from a distance, without their knowledge, will often escape the protection they are unaware exists. Which Harry had done many times. The aurors had argued with Dumbledore, but he had refused to alter his decision. After all, nothing bad had come of the few time Harry had left the aurors sight.

At least until now. The thirty seconds it had taken for the aurors to reach the alley Harry had so foolishly gone running down had been fifteen seconds too long. By the time they reached it, it was completely empty. Except for a single hole where the cobblestone portkey that had vanished with Harry had been, and few suspiciously clean bits of paving, which without their previous enchantment as portkeys would reveal nothing, there was no sign at all that anyone had ever been there.

The aurors gazed at eachother in horror. How on earth were they going to explain this to Dumbledore? And what could he possibly do about it, when they did? What could anyone in the world possibly do about it?

As if in answer to their despair, a cloud overhead rumbled, and the rain that had been threatening all day came pouring down.


	12. Chapter 12

Harry stumbled to his feet in the most unpleasant possible place he could imagine. It looked as if it could have once been a dungeon of the worst sort, where people were tortured to death. Bits of chain and rust colored stained marred the walls, and there were several well preserved peices of what looked like ancient devices to inflict pain. Unless of course, the devices were new, and had been brought in by Lord Voldemort himself, or one of his equally twisted minions. It was dark, and unnaturally cold as well. Colder than it had been outdoors, in fact. Harry was not certain whether this was caused by the location of this place, wherever it was, or by some trick of the intensity of evil within Voldemort himself, destroying the light and warmth as effectively as the presence of a dementor.

A few candles and torches flickered inneffectively along the walls. Scarcely any of their light reached Harry, and he would almost just as rather have done without it, as it served only to illuminate fresh bloodstains on the floor, and Lord Voldemort's hideous face, which resembled that of a snake far more than it did anything human. No, Harry thought suddenly, it was worse than a snake's. A snake was just an animal, no more evil than any other. Certainly the snake he had freed at a muggle zoo once, a long time ago, had borne no resemblence to the leering, twisted visage he saw before him now.

"Well, well well." Voldemort hissed. "If it isn't the famous Harry Potter. How considerate of you to come and visit me."

Harry drew his wand and pointed it at Voldemort. "Where are Ron and Hermione? What have you done with them."

"Oh, they're quite safe for right now." Voldemort sneered. "Though I will kill them soon enough. Right after I've killed you. Draw your wand, Potter. I have another one I've been learning to use for just this occasion. There will be no Priori Incantatem or any other such lucky tricks to save you this time."

Harry drew his wand and tried casting 'Expelliarmus' on the tan wand Voldemort held pointed at him. With a lazy flick of the wand that hardly seemed enough to do magic, the Dark Lord easily diverted the spell away from himself.

"Is that the most powerful spell you can do, Potter?" Voldemort sneered in a manner reminiscent of Snape. "I learned more effective ones when I was still in my first year at Hogwarts! Incendio!"

"Protego!" Harry cast the sheilding charm, barely protecting himself from having Voldemort's fiery curse burning his face off. He was forced to cast it again and again as Voldemort rained dark curses down on him. Harry had to spend all his effort to keep the evil spells from hitting him, and was not given a single opening to cast any more offensive spells of his own on the Dark Lord. Even at that, he sensed that the magical power behind Voldemort's spells was much greater than he would be able to shield himself against for long. The vicious curses battered against his magical protections, forcing him backwards as easily as a pit bull would batter a kitten. Had he had time to think, he now would have understood Snape's contempt for his abilities. He had thought he was a powerful wizard, skilled at defending himself against the Dark Arts, but he had been comparing himself with his fellow classmates, not with a full-fledged Dark Wizard. Voldemort had been honing his magical abilities for decades, whereas Harry had spent almost all the spare time he had in the few years he had known he was a wizard engaging in such pursuits as chasing Quidditch balls and window shopping with his friends in Hogsmeade village. More amusing than learning silent magic or how to cast two spells at once, perhaps, but not very useful when it came to survival. Some people, perhaps, might think it cruel to force a boy to grow up to quickly, and learn the deadly skills needed to defend his own life when he is no more than a child, but how much crueller is it to deny him the knowledge that he is going to NEED those skills, and as a consequence, deny him the chance to live to grow up at all? As it was, Harry had as little chance of defeating Voldemort with his inadequate magical skills as he had of stopping a bull elephant from stampeding by standing bodily in front of it.

"Pathetic." Voldemort sneered as a spell of his broke through Harry's magical shields, and cut a nasty slice across his left arm. Harry was covered with sweat and gasping for breath, barely able even to lift his wand. Voldemort on the other hand did not look at all tired, he could just as easily have been swatting butterflies, for all the apparent exertion he showed after fighting Harry.

He raised his wand and cast 'Crucio' on Harry, licking his lips as he did so. A true, remorseless sadist, he was physically aroused by the sight of human suffering. Harry was far too naive to understand this, and writhing in pain, in no condition anyways to look for the signs of such things even if he had understood it. He only comprehended that it felt like his internal organs and muscles were simultaneously being ripped out, dissolved in acid, and burned. That, and a dim spark of awareness that he had failed completely. He was going to die, and then Ron and Hermione would die next. He hadn't been a very good wizard, he had failed all the faith Dumbledore and everyone else had had in him. Then, after several unbearable minutes, he became aware through a miasma of red that the pain had finally stopped. He would have thought he was dead, but then he would have been with Sirius. Instead he was still trapped with Voldemort gloating down at him.

"I tire of this game, Potter." Voldemort said. "You are as poor at bearing pain as you are at everything else. I shall kill you now, and then go on to deal with the rest of my enemies."

He raised his wand to cast his final spell, the Avada Kadavra, but did not get the chance. For just then, the universe played one of the peculiar jokes that whatever dieties who shuffle the cosmic deck of life are so fond of, and all hell broke loose.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13. Saturday, November 30. An unplottable location.

A few minutes earlier.

The wizard had been sitting, as had been his custom for the past few months, at a desk he had placed beneath the magical map he had created using the chocolate frog cards. There was all sorts of curious information to be derived from the study of such a map, had he been interested. Just now, for instance, two 6th year Slytherins seemed to be having sex in one of the stalls of a bathroom on the first floor, and a 3rd year Ravenclaw had snuck into the restricted section of the Hogwarts library.

The wizard could not have cared less. His culture had very few official restrictions and even fewer unofficial ones on either information or procreation. Those in his country who were, for whatever reason, inclined to prevent free access to either, generally had their mind changed at the point of a wand.

Right now he was reading a rather thick novel, which peculiarly enough was written by a muggle author. Although he possessed an nearly preternatural patience when it came to observing the map he had made, and he only dared leave it when he was certain Harry Potter was either asleep or in class, and thus unlikely to change locations, he could not have tolerated the boredom of looking at it every single second. Thus, he amused himself with books, or solitary card games, only glancing at the map every few minutes. He was hoping for an opportunity to catch Harry without the protection of Dumbledore, who was one of the few wizards powerful enough to oppose him. Thus far he had had little luck. The few times Harry was not in Hogwarts he was closely followed by two or more of several different aurors whose names had gotten sickeningly familiar to the wizard. Though the aurors themselves were almost certainly not powerful enough to present him with much of a challenge, they no doubt had means of summoning Dumbledore instantly, should anything seem amiss to them.

Such as his attempting to kidnap their precious 'Chosen One' as the English newspapers had taken to calling Harry.

The wizard was therefore surprised when he looked up after finishing a chapter of his book, and not being able to spot Harry's name immediately on his map. He had long since enchanted the letters of his name to glow a brilliant red, so as to be immediately visible amidst the other hundreds of myriad names moving around on the map.

He stood up in alarm. Where was Harry Potter! The last he had looked, he was in a tavern with his two usual companions, those being one Ronald Weasley and one Hermoine Granger. The aurors were a short distance away, observing him in secret. Now he could not spot any of their names. Given the fact that Harry was continually on his map, he had surmised that the boy must habitually carry one of his chocolate frog cards with him. Had he dropped it? Where was he?

He waved his wand, magically expanding his map. There, there was a flicker of red in the corner. Harry had obviously been moved suddenly to a distant location. The wizard cast a spell, recentering the map on wherever it was Harry was now located. Then he grew even more alarmed.

Harry was only a few feet away from Lord Voldemort!

Though the wizard cared little for the rivalry between Harry and the Dark Lord, or any of the hundreds of petty rivalries the squabbling fools who called themselves 'wizards' in England could not seem to resolve in a rational fashion, he certainly did not want Harry to die.

At least not yet.

He did not even consider the possibility that the aurors might have summoned Dumbledore. The English were as incompetent as they were amoral. And that went double for those who worked for their parasitic bureaucracy, the Ministry of Magic. By the time they decided to do anything, and got the proper forms signed to do it, it would be far too late for Harry.

And for himself as well.

This entire line of reasoning took the wizard less than a second. In another second, two seconds after he first noticed Harry in Lord Voldemort's presence, he reached for the amulet that corresponded to the Chocolate Frog card which Harry kept with him, thanking whatever Gods might still exist for someone as thoroughly damned as he was that he had marked it with a circle of paint. Then he used the other function he had put into the Chocolate frog cards. For they were not only his eyes, but his legs as well, and at need, any one of them could not only map it's surroundings, but in conjunction with it's matching amulet, act as a portkey and with a simple spell, transport him there.

Both Lord Voldemort and Harry were equally shocked when, just as Voldemort began casting the Killing curse on him, there was a loud CRACK, as the wizard emerged from the chocolate frog card that was in Harry's pocket. He was in an awkward position, but he had no time to straighten up. Voldemort had paused in his killing curse for but a moment, not sure who this stranger was, but not wanting him to give him the chance to let the Potter brat escape him once more.

He began casting it again.

"Avada Kadavra!"

The wizard did not thing. Like the predatory animal he had become, he merely reacted, by doing what it was he did best.

He apparated.

Not himself, but Harry. He vanished as Voldemort's lethal curse flew towards him, and reappeared several feet to one side. There were wards around this building that had prevented him from Apparating Harry out of it entirely . At least Harry was under a large, stout looking torture device of some kind, made of rough, stout boards bound with metal. Some sort of rack, the wizard believed. It would give him a little protection both from Voldemort's curses and from what the wizard intended to do shortly.

"How DARE you interfere!" Voldemort screamed. "I don't know who you are, but you will live to regret opposing me."

The wizard's lip curled. "Oh I already regret it. Far more than you could possibly imagine."

Voldemort did not understand this cryptic comment, and hurled a curse at the wizard.

"Crucio!"

Once more the wizard apparated, this time appearing several feet behind Voldemort. He decided to taunt him, anything to distract him from Harry.

"Is that the best you can do?" He disapparated and reapparated several times in succession, flickering around the room like a muggle strobe light. Voldemort looked at him angrily, and with the slight beginnings of fear that he had previously reserved only for Albus Dumbledore. How was this strange intruder doing this? No-one could apparate that fast.

No-one except this strange wizard, apparently. During his several seconds of apparating, he had already determined that he would not be able to break through or remove whatever sort of unfamiliar wards Voldemort had placed around this building. At least not in the time he was going to have to do something. It was possible to apparate within the building itself, but not to leave it by that method. He would have to get a hold of Potter long enough to use the chocolate frog card to portkey both of them out of here. He was fairly certain it was in his breast pocket, the toe of one of his boots had been stuck in there when he first came here. It would only take a moment, but that was more than long enough for Voldemort to kill him.

He apparated again, having spent less than a second thinking of what it was he must do. A flash of green light hit the wall where he had been a moment ago, fracturing a large chunk off one of the ancient stone blocks.

Despite the danger he was in, the wizard began to enjoy this game, it was actually amusing, taunting his enemy like this. He felt his eyes begin to change, and colors swam before them as he saw auras and other things from different dimensions. Well, let them change. It would only increase his power. And though the things he saw were often terrible, it was even worse, the way he enjoyed seeing them more and more.

Voldemort noticed the alteration to the wizard. "So you're the fool who hurt one of my followers. Carved a message in his back. No-one defies me and gets away with it. I'll give you one chance to live. Share the secret of whatever power it is you have with me, and we can rule the world together. Otherwise you're a dead man."

The wizard simply laughed. A hollow, uncomforting sound like the crack of a frozen gravestone breaking in two. "You can't kill me. You can't even touch me with the least of your spells. As for ruling the world, I've no interest in it. The world can go to hell, and I expect it will. As will you. As will I."

"What the hell does that mean!" Voldemort spat.

"You want to offer me something?" The wizard said in a mocking tone. "Then tell me this: Where is it?"

"You've asked me that before. And I have no idea what you are talking about. I don't know what 'it' is, or where it might be."

"You see?" The wizard shrugged ironically. He disapparated and reappeared behind Voldemort."You have nothing to offer me. Except, perhaps, Harry Potter. Perhaps he might know where it is."

"Potter is mine!" Voldemort whirled around. "You can't have him."

The wizard said nothing, but cast an unpleasant castration curse at Voldemort's crotch, which he was barely able to deflect. Furious at this attempt at his emasculation, he hurled curses at random, hoping to hit the wizard by chance as he apparated and disapparated far faster than any human being should ever be capable of. Dimly he became aware that this was a new limitation to his otherwise great powers that he had not thought of before. Though a wizard might otherwise not be as powerful as he was, his magical strength became all but useless against him if the wizard was, as this one seemed to be, faster and more mobile. Fighting someone like insane intruder was like a lion fighting an eagle. The lion would win, but only if the eagle were foolish enough to land and permit the lion to sink his claws into him.

It was a lesson he would contemplate more thoroughly, later. For now, a new lesson presented itself. Namely that a large enough eagle could have talons of it's own. The madly apparating wizard now did something even more peculiar than he had already done. As his eyes completed their tranformation from their formerly human state, the wizard drew a second wand from a sheath on his belt. His skin became paler and his hair darker, and Voldemort could swear that he could literally feel the sense of increased power coming from the man's aura, crackling around him like the unbearable heat of an inferno. To the Dark Lord's astonishment and horror, the wizard was actually able to utilize both of those wands simultaneously, casting a Protego and a bone-breaking hex at the same time. It was all Voldemort could do to avoid being hit by the curses, as the wizard apparated around the room casting them at him. Though Voldemort did not realize it, the locations the wizard appeared at were not chosen at random, and the wizard was gradually luring Voldemort to a position close to a thick column of stone. Over the centuries it had been supporting the roof above it, a combination of the weight it held and the inevitable decay of the mortar that glued it together had caused it to lean slightly in one direction. Which at this moment was away from Harry, and towards Lord Voldemort.

Apparating behind Voldemort once more, the wizard flicked his wand - once - twice - at the stone column, apparating out two thin sliced of it, one near the bottom, and another near the ceiling.

Deprived of any support, the column began falling over, directly over the spot where Voldemort was standing! The Dark Lord was forced to abandon his attempts to curse this madman, and instead act to protect himself from being crushed.

"Protego! Wingardium Leviosa!" simple spells, but they sufficed to deflect the tons of stone away from him. The column crashed to the floor with a splintering roar, shattering into several peices. But that was not the end of the matter. The stones of the ceiling, deprived of any support, now began to creak loudly. Voldemort looked up, just as one of them fell where he had been standing a moment ago.

"Protego!" He was about to cast another protective spell, when the wizard vanished, then reappeared again, and took the chance to cast another apparating spell, this one at Voldemort's wand. Before the Dark Lord could do anything, the wand he had been using vanished from his hand.

"Damn You!" Voldemort was now forced to resort to the much more difficult wandless magic to save his own life. With great effort, he cast several other spells. The stone blocks were now falling in an expanding avalanche. He cursed the wretched, apparating wizard, but could not spare any time to deal with either him or Harry. Not unless he wanted his head crushed by a hundred pound chunk of limestone. Though it probably wouldn't actually KILL him permanently, not with all the horcruxes he had made, he had already experienced the destruction of his physical body once, when his own killing curse had deflected off of the infant Harry. He had no desire to experience it again. And despite his near-immortality, he was still possessed of a purely animal survival instinct.

It was tempting for the wizard to try and kill Voldemort. Under the influence of his transformation, evil deeds held a nearly irresistable appeal to him. But he had to force the impulse down. The nature of his difficulties were such that not only did he not dare to kill the Dark Lord, but would undoubtedly have had to act to save his life, if he were in any real danger. It was a distinct possibility that the Dark Lord held a peice of the information he so desperately needed. He didn't know for sure that Voldemort knew anything about what he was looking for, but then he didn't know for sure that Voldemort DIDN'T know, either. He could not take the chance.

So rather than casting any potentially lethal spells, the wizard took a different sort of advantage of Voldemort's distraction. The Dark Lord was far too busy repelling the sections of falling stone to think of the simple ploy of deflecting them towards either him, or Harry. He apparated once more, to Harry's side. A large rock had fallen onto the rack, but luckily the ancient device was sturdy enough that although a board on it had broken in two, it had protected the boy underneath. With a violent motion, the wizard pulled the nearly unconscious Harry out from under the rack, and reached into his pocket. Ah, thank the stars it was still there. He chanted a brief spell, reversing the direction the card-coin portkey pair worked. Voldemort saw what he was doing and disregarding his own safety, hurled a wandless 'Petrificus Totalis' spell at the pair.

Too late. His two enemies, the old one and the new one vanished, and the spell hit nothing but the stone on the wall above the wooden rack the wizard had protected Harry under. Casting it had actually been a mistake, it caused the ceiling to disintegrate even more violently than it had been doing. He screeched in fury, as he had to wandlessly deflect several more falling stone blocks away from himself.

Eventually the cave in stopped. Voldemort found himself standing amidst a large heap of rubble, blinking at the ceiling of a level to a higher floor to the ruins, at least 30 feet above his head. His death eaters were rushing it to see what the uproar had been about. Fools. Why couldn't they have been faster? He could have used their assistance five minutes ago! Now it was far too late. The filthy Harry Potter had escaped his grasp, yet again. He pointed his wand at the nearest of the incompetent fools. "Crucio!"

It would have been a slight comfort to him though not much, to see how the wizard treated Harry once they had made their escape. Safe in the lair they had made for themselves, the wizard briefly looked at Harry and felt the pulse in his neck. Despite the boy's unconscious state, his aura was strong, and the pulse steady. He was in no danger of dying. Satisfied, the wizard tossed him with little regard onto the rough wooden floor, as if the boy were no more deserving of comfort than a sack of potatoes, or a misbehaving dog. Harry would wake up when he woke up. In the meantime, he was not going to waste his time offering him even the comfort of a blanket, when it wasn't necessary and he had other things to do.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14. Sunday December 1, 1996

Harry had been vaguely aware of part of the battle between the wizard and Lord Voldemort, though he could make little sense of it. He had been certain he was about to die when there had been a flash of heat in his pocket and some wizard he did not even know apparated into Lord Voldemort's chambers and then proceeded to move and cast spells faster than Harry would have believed possible. Then a backlash from one of the curses Voldemort and the strange wizard were hurling at eachother had hit him in the head, and he did not know what happened after that.

He was unconscious for over 12 hours. When he awoke, he was in surrounding which were not nearly as ominous as the torture chamber where Lord Voldemort's portkey had brought him, but far more peculiar. He was lying on a floor made out of rough wooden boards that were uncomfortable warm. There was a splinter in his cheek where he had scraped against one of them while lying there for who knew how long. How long had it been, anyways? There were no windows in this place, wherever it was, to tell him whether it was day or night.

Harry stumbled to his feet, shaking his head to try to get rid of the muzzy feeling. It was far cooler away from the floor. But that didn't seem right. Professor Snape had spent long enough hammering it into his head that heat tended to rise, so if anything it should be hotter when he stood up. Curious, he knelt down and poked a finger through a wide crack between two of the floorboards. He felt something smooth that was burning hot, and hastily withdrew his finger, sucking on the reddened tip.

The room he was in was long and narrow, perhaps about 100 feet by 10 feet, resembling a wide hallway more than an ordinary room. There were doors on either of the narrow ends, and the long sides were lined with shelves stuffed so thoroughly with books and scrolls that some of them seemed as if they would come tumbling down at any moment. Harry looked at the literature curiously. Whoever it was that had put them on these shelves obviously had a very broad taste in reading. There were grimoires and other spell books, many of which he recognized from Hogwarts. But there were also books on dark magic, far darker than were kept even in the Restricted Section at Hogwarts Library. He pulled one of them out, and saw that it had a thick leather cover with a small eyeball set into it. The eyeball blinked, and turned to look at him. Hastily, Harry put the book back. He had seen a few things like this at Borgin and Burkes. It was something a Death Eater would own, not a decent wizard like himself or Dumbledore. Which would explain the lousy way he had been treated, just being dropped on the floor. But then, he thought with puzzlement, why would a Death Eater have rescued him from Voldemort in the first place?

Walking further down, he was even more puzzled to see several shelves with a selection of muggle literature. Something he was certain no Death Eater would ever read, much less own. A few books had fallen to the floor, and Harry saw a sort of overly thick wooden grating behind the shelf with polished rock behind it. That was strange. Why put that grating behind the shelves, it just took up space? He poked his finger through it experimentally, and found that the rock on the walls was as hot as the floor had been.

As was the rock ceiling, as he learned a few moments later.

Gazing at the rock ceiling, a number of questions entered his mind. If the floor, walls, and ceiling were all so hot, then why was the air temperature fairly comfortable? And there was something strange about the construction as well, the rock walls were not made of blocks, but seemed to be one contiguous peice. As if he were inside a cave or something. But so far as he knew, caves were not shaped like perfect rectangles. It could be a reshaped cave, but why go to all the trouble of polishing all the walls and the ceiling to such perfect smoothness? Especially if you were just going to put wooden gratings and bookshelves in front of the walls? And why the hell were they so hot, anyways? From the little reading Harry had done about caves, he was certain they were supposed to be fairly cool inside.

Stepping a little bit farther, Harry felt a blast of cold air hit him, reminding him of a muggle airconditioner, except that the temperature of it seemed far below freezing. He looked around and saw a box filled with light hanging from the ceiling above him. The air seemed to be coming out of the box. Was it a ventilation shaft of some kind, leading out of this place?

Curious, he took one of several stepstools that were scattered around this room, most likely to enable access to the highest parts of the bookshelves, and examined the box. It was not a ventilation shaft in any normal sense of the word. It was not connected to anything, but was merely a crude metal box dangling from two rusted chains that were bolted into the ceiling. The end of it that glowed with light was covered with a metal grating. Harry stuck his head by it, but could only see a few runes etched on the outside, and a sparkling white light.

Very strange.

There were several more boxes, they seemed to have been hung up about every 20 feet or so, to combat the oppressive heat coming from the rock this place was made out of. One of them glowed with a blue color that seemed oddly familiar to Harry. He could not quite place it, though. Another one seemed fairly dim, and Harry got the stool again to look into it. What he saw was puzzling and alarming.

Peering into the box he saw, as if from a great height, a range of mountains with the sun just setting over them.

He looked at it for a very long time. Now he recognized that blue color, it had been sky. And he recognized the runes as well, they were those used for certain types of magical portals. Which is what the boxes were, this wizard had opened them onto cold locations to let in the cold air. A pity they weren't larger, he could have tried climbing through them and getting out of this place. But then what would he have done? He didn't have his wand, he thought he had had still had it back with Voldemort, so this strange wizard must have taken it from him. But even if he had had it, he wasn't sure if he had the strength to cast a levitation spell. All those portals seemed to open at great heights. And if he didn't fall to his death, what then? Given the temperature of the air coming out of the portals, he would most likely freeze to death in short order.

Harry saw that he had now reached the end of the room. The door stood slightly ajar, and he wandered through it, finding himself in another room, equally long and narrow. This room seemed to be a store-room and kitchen of sorts. There were boxes and crates containing food, various peices of magical equipment, and near the end was a counter, a sink, and a stove. There was yet another door just past it, and Harry opened it up to find himself looking at a bathroom. A brief examination showed him that the plumbing was as peculiar as everything else here. A pipe came out of a box near the ceiling, that didn't connect to anything, and ran to supply water to a sink, toilet, and small bathtub. Other pipes came from the drains of all three, and ended up in a second box sitting on one corner of the floor. A small bureau held several worn towels, washclothes, and bars of soap.

There was a frame on the wall above the sink that had once held a mirror, but now had only a few splinters of silvered glass remaining in it.

There was no door to the bathroom, save the one he had come in. Harry retraced his steps, back through the kitchen and the library where he had woken up and tried the door at the other end.

The wizard he had seen before, in Voldemort's lair was writing something at a large desk in a room much more ornate than any of the others. The Lumos crystals here had their harsh light softened by multi-colored glass lampshades. There were several paintings and small sculptures of both muggle and wizarding origin, as well as large workbenches with magical equipment on them.

Except for the small bed in the corner, it reminded Harry almost of Headmaster Dumbledore's office. That, and the fact that his wand was sitting on the desk next to the wizard.

But the wizard at the desk was not Dumbledore. He was far younger, chesnut hair waved down to his shoulders. Though there was a hint of something about his face that seemed drawn, and much older than it should have been. It reminded Harry almost of Snape. But then the expression was gone, and the wizard looked almost alarmed as Harry stepped into the room, hastily overturning a picture of some sort that was on the desk next to him. Then he took a large pile of parchments, including the one he had been writing on, and stuffed them into a drawer, before turning to back Harry.

"Ah, Mr. Potter. Finally awake I see." he said. "I suppose you're wondering why I've arranged this meeting."

"Well, yes." Harry was not at all certain who this wizard was, or what he wanted. "I don't mean to seem ungrateful, since Voldemort was about to kill me before you showed up, but I'm not really sure what this place is. And how do you get out of it? I've been through the whole thing, and there are no doors leading out. Unless you've got one hidden behind one of the bookshelves."

The wizard seemed amused by this question. So Harry had gone through his entire home, and learnt absolutely nothing. There could hardly be doors leading out of this particular place. And this imbecile was supposedly the hope of all of wizarding England?

"No, there are no doors here, Mr. Potter. When I wish to enter or leave, I simply apparate."

"That seems kind of inconvenient." Harry said. He looked at his wand, sitting next to the wizard. "What's your name?"

He was pleased to see that the wizard was actually startled by this question. No-one had asked him his name in a very long time. Very few people wanted to know it, particularily after the things he did to them.

"My name would mean little to you, Potter. I was famous once, in my own small corner of the world, but that was likely before you were even born. And I would prefer that you not tell others who I am, at any rate. So I suggest you think of me as the man who saved you from Lord Voldemort."

"Yeah." Harry looked at his wand again. "Can I have my wand back?"

The wizard picked up the wand and examined it. He held it in his hand, feeling the magical vibrations from it. "Interesting. A powerful wand, though not particularly precise. More of a bludgeon than a scalpel, I'd say. I suppose it suits the sort of wizard you English tend to be. As for getting it back, that's entirely up to you."

It was as Harry figured. This wizard wanted something. But he needed his wand back. Dumbledore thought it was important that he have the wand that was a brother to Lord Voldemort's. "Do you want money? I have a vault full of money my parents left me at Gringotts. I can pay you for it."

"Money?" the wizard laughed, an unpleasant sound, that made Harry wand to plug his ears against it. "No, I hardly think I need any of your money Potter. I have plenty of my own. Even if I didn't, money could hardly buy me what it is I'm looking for."

"Looking for?" Harry was confused. He was certain he did not own anything that belonged to this wizard. Unless it was hidden somewhere in the house he had inherited from Sirius.

"Tell me, Potter. Can you tell me where it is?" The wizard's eyes glinted with humor, and a touch of something far more dangerous.

"Where what is?" Harry looked baffled.

"It doesn't matter." The wizard waved in annoyance. "I've been looking for it for 15 years. I haven't had much luck. I've tortured bits and peices of information out of people about it every so often, but not very much. I believe it's been protected with the Fidelius charm. I need to find the secret keeper first. Though no-one seems to know who he is. But there have been clues. They've led me here. I think I am very close now, I can smell it."

"I'm sorry." Harry said timidly. That part the wizard had mentioned about torturing people had him frightened. This might not be a Death Eater, but it was a very Dark wizard nonetheless. "But I'm not the secret keeper for anything. I'm afraid I really can't help you find this... whatever it is you are looking for."

"I didn't say you were." The wizard looked at him with an expression of contempt that Harry had often seen on Snape's face. "You would have been less than a year old at the time the Fidelius was made. I hardly think someone would make an infant a Secret Keeper."

"Well, yeah. I guess so. So what do you want from me?"

"It's like this, Potter. You may not know the Secret, but it is my belief that you have some information, a few more clues, which will lead me a few steps closer to the one who does. Now, the way I see it, I have just saved your life from Lord Voldemort. You therefore owe me a life-debt. The fashion in which you may pay it is to answer several questions which I have for you."

"And if I answer them, what will happen then. Will you kill me?"

"Kill you?" The wizard raised his eyebrows. "I bear you no malice, Potter. Frankly, I'm not much interested in you at all. Our lives have unfortunately intersected for this brief period. Hopefully it will be a brief period. Once you have given me the information I ask of you, I shall give you your wand back, and return you to Hogwarts. Or wherever else you wish to go. Though I would not recommend your returning to Lord Voldemort."

"Well, alright. I'll answer them. Maybe. It depends on what they are." Harry was frightened. If he refused to answer, would the wizard torture him? He was not sure what he would do then. This wizard must want whatever it was he was looking for very badly indeed, to risk fighting Voldemort just to get the opportunity to ask Harry a few questions.

"You really don't have a choice about answering." The wizard said. Then he opened up a large scrapbook on his desk, which was full of clipping from both wizard and muggle newspapers. He flipped through it until he came to an article that was familiar to Harry. It had been in the Quibbler last year, and described how Harry and his cousin Dudley had been attacked by Dementors near their home on Privet Drive.

The wizard tapped the article with one long, boney finger. "This article is about you, correct?"

Harry looked at it. "Yes, of course it is."

"I see." the wizard began looking at Harry with a greedy expression that he did not at all like. "Now, the Quibbler is not always, how shall I put this, the most accurate source of information. Occassionaly they do tell the truth, however. Is this one of those times? Were you and your muggle cousin, in fact, actually attacked by a dementor in a muggle neighborhood?"

"Yeah, we were. Actually the Quibbler was telling a lot more truth than the Daily Prophet last year, if you want my opinion."

The wizard ignored Harry's remark about the respective veracities of the two competing newspapers. He closed the scrapbook with a loud BANG, and began pacing in an agitated manner.

"Dementors do not get out by accident." The wizard said, speaking half to Harry and half to himself. "Up until recently, they were loyal to the ministry of magic. Or to be more specific, they went to great pains to convince the ministry that they were loyal. So if one of them got out, they must have been LET out. Someone did it. Who? I must know who it was. I have questions for them."

Harry began to be frightened. As the wizard became agitated, his eyes gleamed strangely, and his skin seemed to become pale, like a vampire's. Or Lord Voldemort's. Come to think of it, there was a strong similiarity between the expression on the face of this wizard, and that of the younger Lord Voldemort's that he had seen in Dumbledore's pensieve.

The wizard did not take kindly to Harry's silence. He pointed at him angrily. "Who was it, Potter? Who sent the Dementor after you!"

Harry shook, not certain what to do. He was not at all fond of Umbridge, but was not sure he wanted to give her name to this wizard. He had talked about torturing people. He was no better than Voldemort. Much as he hated Umbridge, he did not think it would be right to betray her to someone like that.

"If I tell you who it was," Harry said, his voice trembling, "What are you going to do to them? Are you going to hurt them? Torture them like you said you did to those other people?"

The wizard gazed coldly at Harry. "I'm going to make them talk, Potter. If they don't want to talk, I'm going to hurt them until they do talk. Everyone talks in the end. There's a limit to how much pain a human being can stand."

"I don't think I can tell you then." Harry whispered. "I don't think it would be right. Why do you want to know about Dementor attacks anyways."

"Oh, you don't think it would be right." The wizard sneered. Harry saw with horror that something was happening to his eyes. The pupils were far more dilated than they had any right to be, the blue irises were completely covered by them. "You want to know why I want to know about dementors."

"Well let me tell you something about what is and isn't 'right', you stupid little boy." The wizard roared. "Was it 'right' that your ministry of magic took bribes to ignore the Death Eaters decades ago, when they could have been easily stopped? Was it 'right' that the Death Eaters decided to attack mere children at a school in my country? Was it 'right' that when we asked your Ministry of Magic to send aid, as was their legal and moral obligation, they told us to... what is the expression? 'Go Hang'? Was it 'right' that most of my friends died protecting those children? Was it right that even after we drove them off, some of them came after me a month later, looking for revenge?"

He tore open his shirt with a loud ripping sound. Harry saw a pale, sparsely haired chest and stomach, covered with thick, deep scars. He did not understand how someone could have been so cut up and still survived. Even if they had gotten to a mediwizard right away, there would have been little that could have been done.

"Look what they did to me, Potter!" The wizard cried. "Your filthy countrymen that you want to protect. Look at it!"

Afraid not to, Harry forced himself to look. And the scars were not the worst thing. The wizard's eyes had completely changed now. There was no white, or other color to them. They were silvery-transparent orbs, like spheres of clearest ice that had been hollowed out and filled with the essence of mercury. Or perhaps some vacuum from cold, starless reaches of outer space. For there was not only monstrosity in those eyes, but a terrible empty sadness and pain as well.

"What, what happened to you." Harry gasped "How can you still be alive, after that. And what have you done to yourself? What's wrong with you?"

"Let me give you some advice, Potter. Don't ever take unicorn blood. No matter what temptation you have, how badly you want to live, don't ever take it. It isn't worth it."

"You killed a unicorn? And you talk to me about what's right?"

The wizard closed his shirt again, casting reparo on the tears. "Oh, no. I didn't kill it, Potter. I thought I was quite clever to do what I did. Well, I wasn't as clever as I thought. The results were not at all to my liking. And even though I lived, I wasn't able to stop the Death Eaters from going after my wife."

"Your wife? You were married?"

"Oh yes. They found out where she was. They tortured me for three days, Potter. Three days, under the crucio spell, until I finally talked. Then they stabbed me, as you can see, and left me for dead. To go after my wife. If it had just been me, I would have lain there and died. But I had to save her."

He looked a Potter pleadingly, as if asking for a redemption that no longer existed for him. "I thought I had time. I thought they would spend time hurting her and raping her first. I was a rich man, Potter. I could afford the best mediwizards. If there were anything at all left of her, they could have put her back together. But that's not what they did."

He pointed an accusing finger at Harry. "They had a dementor, Potter! They brought a filthy dementor into Gibson Territory! After we've spent 2 centuries keeping them out! They sucked her soul out! By the time I got there, it was too late. There was nothing left, nothing but an empty drooling shell..."

He closed his eyes, remembering back.

"I killed her myself. It wasn't really her. It was nothing but an empty peice of meat. Why did they have to do that? She wouldn't have hurt them. She could never have hurt them, come to that." He raised his head once more and howled like an animal in agony. "For God's sake, she was a MUGGLE!"

Harry did not know what to say. The wizard was a horrible person, he had done horrible things. But he had also suffered horrible things. "I'm sorry. At least they didn't torture her. She didn't suffer."

This was not at all the right thing to say to the wizard. His eyes, which had started to recover some of their color and human appearance went silvery again, then darkened to purest black, like the depths of a tar pit.

"Didn't suffer! Didn't suffer? Have you not been listening to a single thing I have been saying Potter! Her soul was sucked out by a Dementor! No Heaven for her, Potter! She had the voice of an angel, and there will be no heaven for her! What is there for her now? Eternal darkness! Eternal suffering, in whatever sort of hell exists in a Dementor's guts? All so that you filthy, arrogant English bastards can enjoy keeping dementors and watching it suck out eachother's souls! Well, I won't have it, Potter! I'm getting her back! Do you hear me? I'm getting her back!"

He raised his wand and apparated, reappearing right next to Harry, pressing his frightened, darkened eyes only a few inches away from Harryy's face. "Now I'm going to ask you one last time, Potter: Who sent the dementor after you!"

"You're crazy!" Harry mewled. "There's no way to get a soul back from a dementor! I'm not telling you anything!"

The wizard said nothing. He seized Harry by his neck and apparated, carrying Harry along with him. The next thing Harry knew, they were standing in the midst of some ravaged white plain that was cold, colder than anything he could have ever imagined. The air left his lungs in a rush, crystalizing before him, and he felt his saliva bubbling on his tongue. Then the wizard shifted his grip on Harry's throat, and forced his head upwards, to gaze at a moon that seemed amazing large and multicolored. Until he realized a moment later that that was not the moon up there at all.

He tried to scream at his realization but no sound came out. The effort seemed to break something in his soft tissues, and blood spurted from his nose, drifting down in a lazy, improbable arc. Before Harry could reflect on this peculiarity, the wizard had gripped him tightly once again, and apparated.

Harry was almost sick with relief to find himself back in the wizard's chambers. He collapsed on the wooden floor, trying to hug himself to the heated rocks beneath it, anything to drive the terrible cold from his body. He didn't get a chance too, though. The wizard had seized him by the front of the throat, driving in his fingers so visciously that it actually drew blood, which mingled with the stream coming from his nose.

"Please..." Harry gasped. "You're wife... she wouldn't have wanted you to do this."

For a moment the wizard looked like he was ready to do something even more terrible, at hearing the mention of his wife. Then he looked disgusted and pushed Harry violently to the floor. He strode over to his desk and picked up Harry's wand.

"You haven't got any choice about telling me, Potter. You owe me a life debt. Apparently you are so ignorant that you don't understand what that means, though you're going to find out. I'm sending you back to Hogwarts. And I'm keeping this." He waved the wand, and then put it in a drawer. Then he took a coin out of his pocket, took out one of his own twin wands, and cast an enchantment on it. "I'm giving you a month to change you mind about telling me what I want to know. When you do, take the coin in your hand and speak the word 'returno'. It will take you to me. ONLY you, it will not bring along more than one person, so don't think you can get your headmaster here to fight me."

"What if I don't change my mind in a month." Harry said, wiping some of the blood from his face.

"Oh I think you will." The wizard said in a voice as cold as that horrible place he had just forced Harry to apparate withhim to."And if you don't, I'm coming after you. And unless your headmaster is prepared to confine you to Hogwarts for the rest of your life, there is no way to keep me from finding you."

With that he waved his wand, and before Harry could protest further, the wizard's chambers vanished from around him, and he found himself, to his great relief, lying next to the hedges that marked the boundaries of Hogwarts. Staggering, he got to his feet, and walked towards his school, trying to think of what Dumbledore would say about all this, and in particular, how he was going to explain to him that he had lost his wand.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15. Sunday December 1. Afternoon. Hogwarts Castle.

Harry had barely managed to stumble halfway back to Hogwarts when McGonnagal came running out to greet him.

"Harry!" She said in a frightened voice. "Where have you been? What on earth happened? The aurors said that you vanished, they thought you had been captured by Voldemort."

Harry groaned. He wanted to go to bed and sleep for a week. But he needed to see Dumbledore first.

"You look terrible, Harry." said McGonnagal, noticing the bruises and blood on him. "I'd best help you to the hospital so Madame Pomfrey can take a look at you."

"No. I need to see Dumbldedore." Harry said.

"You can barely stand, Harry. I'm sure whatever it is you need to tell the headmaster can wait for a few hours." McGonnagal pursed her lips. What was it about boys in Gryffindor that they continually confused stupidity with bravery.

Over Harry's protests, his head of house brought him to the hospital wing.

"Please." He begged. "I have to talk to Dumbldedore."

"I will go get the headmaster." Mcgonnagal finally relented. "If Madame Pomfrey says you are well enough to talk with him, then you may. Otherwise you will have to wait until you're patched up. You should see yourself, Harry. You look like death warmed over."

Harry lay down on a bed while Madame Pomfrey brought him healing potions and scourgified the blood off of him. She clucked over some of the odd things she saw.

"This is odd, Potter. How in the world did you manage to get both burns and frostbite on your fingertips? I've never seen the like before. Neither is really bad, but it's quite peculiar."

Harry tried to explain to her that he had burned his fingers on the rock wall, and probably frozen them in that horrible place the wizard had apparated them to. But the words got jumbled up in his head, and he could not properly explain to the medi-witch what had happened.

"Well, it doesn't make any sense to me." Madame Pomfrey shook her head. She cast some diagnostic spells over Harry. Very peculiar; there were numerous broken blood vessels in his nose, and on other parts of his skin, but no sign of bruising or curses. "Don't exert yourself talking Harry. Wait till I have you patched up, and then you can explain it to the headmaster."

Despite his awful appearance, Harry was not really hurt that badly. The broken blood vessels, though Pomfrey could not figure out just HOW they had broken, were trivial really, and easily dealt with. There were also residual effects from a few curses. Harry had babbled something about dueling with Voldemort, but Madame Pomfrey was skilled in dealing with that as well. She had seen far worse in Snape, when he came crawling back from meeting with the Dark Lord when he was in a bad mood. Which he seemed to be with greater and greater frequency these days. Little wonder the man was perpetually crabby. A person could hardly be expected to endure such constant abuse and be a cheerful Pollyanna.

The worst injury Harry had was a lump on his head. And even that wasn't very bad. There was a great deal of swelling, but the skull underneath was not even cracked. Madame Pomfrey rubbed some magical ointment on the swelling, making it vanish. There, other than his dirtied and ripped clothing, you would hardly know that Harry had ever been hurt. All in all, she had seen worse injuries from quidditch matches.

Just then, the headmaster came rushing in.

"Harry, thank goodness you are alright!" Dumbledore said. "The aurors told me that you vanished right off the streets in Hogsmeade Village!"

What aurors? Harry wondered. "It was a trap, headmaster. Voldemort had some people disguised as Ron and Hermoine. They tricked me down an alley."

Harry began telling Dumbldedore what happened in a rush, until the headmaster silenced him by raising his hand.

"Harry, please. What you are saying is no doubt important, but you are talking too quickly, and making very little sense. I think perhaps you are still overwrought by all of it. Perhaps we should go to my office and have a cup of tea, so that you can settle down. After that, you can explain what happened to you from the beginning. Do you feel well enough to floo?"

Harry nodded. He was bursting with the desire to tell someone, anyone, what had happened. It was a common reaction to trauma, found in war veterans and other survivors of traumatic violence worldwide. But a bit of tea would be good. He had not had anything to eat or drink in nearly 24 hours, since the butterbeers he had had with Ron and Hermoine. Had it been only yesterday? It seemed like an infinitude of time had gone past.

Dumbldore helped him over to the floo, and tossed a handful of powder into it. "Headmaster's office." He alone, and those he escorted could enter his office that way. Others had to use the stairs, and know the proper password.

Harry sat down with relief on one of the large chairs, while Dumbledore clapped his hands, making a tray with cups and a steaming pitcher of tea appear. It was sweetened with honey and lemon rather than sugar, and Harry sipped on it appreciatively. Dumbledore waited patiently until he had finished his entire cup and poured himself another one.

"Now tell me what happened, Harry. Begin at the beginning, and try to be accurate. Don't tell me what you believe happened, or your opinion of it, but only what you actually saw and heard with your own eyes and ears."

Harry nodded, and began describing the events of the previous day to Dumbledore. He started out with Ron and Hemoine being lured away, then interrupted himself to ask the Headmaster. "Where are they? Did the Death Eaters get them too?"

"Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger are fine, Harry." Dumbledore said. "Attacking them in the middle of Hogsmeade village would have attracted far too much attention. The Death Eaters merely wanted them elsewhere, so that they could successfully imitate them. They are in the Gryffindor common room worrying themselve sick about you right now. Now do go on."

Harry then described how he had seen the Death Eaters who looked like Ron and Hermione seeming to be captured by the others, and how, upon stepping on a certain cobblestone in the alley, he had been whisked away to Lord Voldemort's lair. "I'm a bit puzzled by that, though, sir. I thought you actually had to touch a portkey with your skin to get it to work. Like what happened with the tri-wizard cup. This one worked just from my foot stepping on it, when I was wearing shoes."

Dumbledore was not puzzled by it at all. "There are many variations on magic, Harry. Most portkeys, it is true, are created to work when they are touched. Others work differently. This one apparently was charmed to work when enough weight was placed on it. It isn't a difficult spell, by any means."

"Alright." Harry accepted the headmaster's explanation, and then went on to describe his battle with Lord Voldemort, and how he had been so badly overclassed, and about to be killed, before the strange wizard had shown up.

"Yes, tell me about him." Dumbledore said with a strange gleam in his eyes. "You said something about him before, that he was Apparating around the room. Are you quite certain that was what he was doing? He wasn't just casting a Dissillusionment spell on himself, or making us of an invisibility cloak?"

"No, he was Apparating." Harry said positively. "You can't mistake the noise that makes for anything else."

"Indeed." Dumbledore looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked Harry. "Tell me, did this man speak with an Australian accent?"

"Yes, he did, in fact." Harry said with astonishment. "How did you know that? Have you heard of this man before? Who is he?"

Dumbledore said nothing, but got up from his desk and took a parchment envelope off a nearby shelf. He opened it and took out a yellowed newspaper that read "Aurora Australis" on top. There was large picture of a man standing on a platform in front of a crowd, apparently in the process of giving a speech. His head was bandaged, as was his left arm, but he looked quite cheerful nonetheless. Whatever it was he was saying to the crowd obviously met with their overwhelming approval, as the audience in the magically moving picture was smiling widely and no few of them were tossing an assortment of wizard and muggle hats into the air.

"Was this the man you saw?" Dumbldedore asked, indicating the bandaged man giving the speech.

Harry looked at the man in the picture. It was hard to tell for a moment, with that thick bandage wrapped around the top of his head, and his expression was far more cheerful and full of life and hope than the wizard who had taken Harry from Voldemort had been. But it was still the same person, nonetheless. "Well, it's hard to tell, with the picture so small and all, but yes, I think that is the same person. He looks a lot happier in the picture, though. Who is he?"

"His name, Harry, is Michael Von Richthoven. Does that mean anything to you?"

Harry shook his head. "No, he didn't tell me his name."

"Hardly surprising. Well, about 15 years ago, he was quite notorious for a short while. The Ministry of Magic actually wanted to extradite him from his native country and put him on trial for, let me see, what were the charges, ah, 'Grotesque misuse of Apparating spells'."

Harry blinked. "How do you misuse an apparating spell? By apparating into Fudge's bathroom?"

Dumbledore chuckled at this. "There is no such charge, Harry. The very fact that they were engaged in self-defense at the time would be enough to acquit them, even if there were. The Ministry officials who tried to press the charges were undoubtedly being bribed by Lucius Malfoy or some other wealthy Death Eater who was annoyed at the fact that Von Richthoven and his fellow apparators managed to defeat them when they tried attacking the Gibson Academy in Australia."

"He mentioned something about that, sir. But I don't see why the Death Eaters would go way over there to attack a school on the other side of the world. Don't they have enough to do, trying to conquer England?"

"Quite more than enough to do, which is why they tried what they did. They came up with the rather clever idea that if they could not take over England directly, by use of violence, they could take over it indirectly, by use of economics. So they tried to conquer the Gibsonites, who provide a number of very necessary transportation services not only for England, but for a great many other countries, as well. They thought it would be easy, as the Gibsonites happen to have no government, and therefore no aurors, or other official means of defense. But, as the Gibsonites drove them off, it was not as easy as they thought."

"How? If they have no aurors, sir?"

"Harry, simply because a people have no OFFICIAL means of defense, does not mean they are helpless. Do you not recall what you did last year, when Delores Umbridge tried to prevent you and your classmates from learning anything useful in the Defense Against the Dark Arts class?"

"Yeah," Harry wrinkled his nose at the thought of the toad-like Umbridge. "We tried figuring out ways to teach ourselves how to fight against dark wizards like Voldemort."

"Precisely." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his glasses. "The Gibsonites are more than willing, quite eager, in fact, to defend themselves against those who attack them. Indeed, it is their belief that people who are NOT willing to provide for their own defense and would rather have others do their fighting for them, are probably not fit to live."

"That's a bit harsh, sir."

"The Gibsonites are a harsh people. The desert they live in is a harsh place, and as a result they are unfortunately rather lacking a great deal of compassion. They are not, however, generally overtly violent, as you describe this wizard. Tell me more about what occured once he brought you to his home."

Harry described the peculiarly hot rock walls, making Dumbldedore nod, and murmur to himself. "Very clever. It would be nearly impossible to find, if you didn't already know where to look. Go on, Harry."

"Well, then he said that I owed him a life-debt for his having taken me away from Voldemort. And that I could pay it by answering his questions for him."

"I see. What did he want to know?"

"I'm not sure." Harry said. "I think he wanted to know something about where a dementor was. He thought I might know something about it, on account of me and Dudley being attacked by one last year. It was kind of hard to tell. He started going berserk about then. His eyes got all weird, and when I wouldn't answer him..."

Dumbldore jumped to his feet, reaching out to Harry with his withered arm, so great was his alarm at this. "What? You didn't answer him!"

Harry's eyes widened. He had never seen Dumbledore so frightened before. "No, I couldn't! He was talking about torturing people to learn what he wanted to know. Even though I hate Umbridge, I don't think it would be right to betray her to someone like that."

"Oh, Harry." Dumbldedore sat back down, shaking his head sadly. "Harry, Harry, you poor foolish boy. You can't simply refuse to pay a life-debt to someone. Not without consequences. Surely Professor Snape mentioned this in his Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Its generally mentioned in the first month of the 6th year class."

"Well, Snape says a lot of things. Most of them have to do with taking points." Harry said, somewhat rankled at the mention of his least favorite teacher.

"It's Professor Snape, Harry." Dumbledore chided. "You really should learn to listen to him. He does know a great deal about magic."

"Dark Magic." Harry said. "I expect he'd know a lot about this wizard, Richthoven. He had shelves full of books about the Dark Arts. And he wasn't even human anymore. He told me he took unicorn blood, to save his life. Just like Voldemort."

"He killed a unicorn?" Dumbldedore said, wrinkling his brow. "I find that hard to believe."

"Well, no. He didn't kill it." Harry admitted. "At least he said he didn't. He said he did something else, but didn't say what. He said that he thought he was being very clever, but that he wasn't, and that I should never do such a thing, no matter how badly I wanted to."

"Very good advice." Dumbledore said. He sighed. "I feel terribly sorry for Von Richthoven, Harry. It must be a truly horrible thing to be him."

"Sorry for him! After what he did to me?"

"Yes, I do, Harry." Duumbledore said firmly. "If we lose our ability to feel compassion, even for those we dislike, we become no better than they are. Try for a moment, to imagine what it must be like, to exist as Richthoven does. To have lost almost all his humanity through what he has done to himself, but to still retain just enough of it to regret what he lost. It must be nearly unbearable. To actually have killed the unicorn would be easier to bear. At least for him. Like Voldemort, he would no longer have the capacity to care any longer."

"And that's better?"

"Not better. Worse, actually. But more bearable, from his point of view."

Harry did not understand this particular distinction. "He's a monster, headmaster. After he started screaming at me, he grabbed me, and apparated me to this horrible place. It was so cold, and I couldn't breath. I thought it was the moon, but that can't be right. No-one can do that. Can they?"

"Actually," Dumbldore said quietly. "There are a very few wizards who can. Most of them Gibsonites, like Von Richthoven."

Harry was stunned by this. "I've never heard of that before. How can they do that? Can you?"

"I probably could have, at one time." Dumbledore said. "Though I never had the inclination to try. I'm afraid I'm a bit old to attempt it now, Harry, and not in the best of health."

"And they can? How can they, if you can't anymore?"

"The Gibsonites are very skilled apparators, Harry. They specialize in it. As I told you before, they provide transportation services for England, and many other countries. This wizard, Michael Von Richthoven, was the head of the Gibson Territory Appartor's guild, at one time. Which meant he was, and probably still is, the best Apparator in the entire world. Including myself, I'm afraid."

"And he can really go to the moon?"

"Going to the moon." Dumbledore said solemnly. "Is, in fact, the test required of Master Class Apparators in Gibson Territory. Though there are others who are capable of it. Such as Wilkie Twycross, the ministry's instructor for Apparation classes."

Harry looked frightened by this. If this Von Richthoven was better at something than Dumbledore, would the headmaster be able to protect him against both the insane Apparator, and Voldemort?

"Now, this is very serious, Harry. I need to know everything else that Von Richthoven told you. He must have been furious when you refused to answer his questions. The consumption of unicorn blood, by whatever means, has a very poor effect on the temper. I'm surprised he didn't do far worse than take you to the moon, to learn what he wanted to know."

"I think he was going, to. He was having the most horrible fit. He talked about how the Death Eaters who had tried to kill him had fed his wife's soul to a dementor, and that he was going to get it back."

"They did what, to who?" If Dumbledore had been frightened before, now he was more angry than Harry had ever seen him.

"His wife, sir. He said they fed her soul to the dementors. He was really mad, sir. He said she was a muggle, and couldn't have hurt them, even if she wanted to."

"His wife. Oh dear." Dumbledore got up and began pacing. "This is very bad, Harry. Far worse than I thought."

"How can it be worse? He's already said that if I don't change my mind within a month, he's coming after me."

"Gibsonites despise dementors, Harry." Dumbledore said. "They hate them with a passion. They exterminated every last one in their country over a century ago. And they despise those who use them, such as us, only slightly less. I think that it has been tried once or twice before, people sneaking dementors into Gibson Territory. When they were caught, well, let's just say that being crucio'ed and enervated at the same time is an exceedingly prolonged and painful sort of way to die. It can take months."

"They can't do that!" Harry protested. "The crucio spell is illegal."

"The crucio spell is illegal in England." Dumbledore corrected him. "It is not necessarily illegal in Gibson Territory, depending on the circumstances under which it is cast. Dementors, on the other hand, are not permitted in Gibson Territory under any circumstances whatsoever. No excuses allowed."

Dumbledore paced for a few moments longer, and seemed to come to a decision. "I'm going to have to leave and make some arrangements to protect you from this wizard, Harry. And to protect you from Voldemort as well. The fact that you refused to pay a life debt has made you far more vulnerable to him than you have ever been in your entire life."

"I don't understand. What does my life debt to Von Richthoven have to do with Voldemort?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I don't have time to explain, Harry. You're just going to have to trust me."

He raised his wand and cast a Patronus, a silvery phoenix that seemed to converse with him for a moment in a tinkling, musical tongue, and then flashed away through one of the walls.

"I've just sent a message to Professor Snape, explaining the situation. I want you to go down to his office and talk with him. Listen very carefully to what he has to tell you. He knows a great deal about the Gibsonites. But hold on a moment, there is something I must give you." Dumbledore rummaged around in a collection of small bottles that was on his shelf as well, finally taking one out and handing it to Harry, along with his penseive. "Take this memory and my pensieve with you to Professor Snape. He will know what to do with them."

Harry set his lips sullenly. He hated having to go and talk to Snape and endure his inevitable snide comments, but knew better than to argue. He had gotten himself into trouble far too many times during his years at Hogwarts by not listening to Dumbledore. He took a lemon drop to suck on, and headed out of Dumbledore's high office for the depths of the dungeons where Snape made his home.


	16. Chapter 16

Sunday December 1. Evening. Hogwarts Castle

Reluctantly, Harry made his way down to Professor Snape's office. He was not feeling at all well. In the past day or so he had been kidnapped by Voldemort, re-kidnapped by an insane Australian wizard for who knew what sort of sinister purpose, and had somehow upset Dumbledore. On top of that, he had had nothing to eat or drink except a little bit of tea in Dumbledore's office. As a result, he walked as slowly as he could, trying to delay the unhappy moment when he would have to speak with Snape as Dumbledore had told him.

As unhappy as Harry was, he was even more upset after he knocked on Professor Snape's door. He heard a muffled invitation to enter, and the door swung open. As soon as he came in, he could see that Severus Snape was not at all a happy man. In fact, he had not had such an expression of fury on his face, since Harry had poked his nose into his pensieve last year.

Snape pointed a long finger at Harry, a look of undisguised loathing on his face. "Sit." He told Harry, pointing at an uncomfortable looking wooden chair.

Not wanting to further contribute to whatever it was that had the Potion's Master in such a foul mood, Harry sat wordlessly down. There was a shimmer of a silvery phoenix sitting on Snape's desk. It was Dumbledore's Patronus. Which was rather odd,. Harry thought. It had taken him nearly 30 minutes to get from Dumbledore's office to Snape's. Surely Dumbledore's patronus should have long since delivered whatever message it had to Snape, and have then vanished. Just then Snape noticed him gazing at it, and waved his wand, dismissing the ethereal creature.

"Rather nosey, aren't you Potter." Snape said nastily.

"No sir." Harry did not think this was at all fair. He could hardly help from seeing the shining Patronus if it was sitting right there, could he?

"You're a liar, Potter. 10 points from Gryffindor. Now sit there and stop looking at things that don't concern you, until I'm ready to talk to you."

Harry stared at the floor, counting cracks, burn marks, and stains. He noticed a silvery shimmer out of the corner of one eye as Snape summoned his own patronus, but did not dare look up to see what it was. Eventually he noticed a shadow over him, reflecting in the silvery surface of the pensieve, and looked up to see Professor Snape sneering down at him.

" I believe that you have something for me from the Headmaster, Potter?" Snape said.

Harry handed Snape the Pensieve and the bottled memory which Dumbledore had given him. Rather than doing anything with it immediately, however, Snape placed them both on his desk, regarding them with an expression of vile distaste, which after a few moments he redirected towards Harry.

"So." Snape sneered at him. "The famous 'Chosen One' has finally gotten himself into the sort of trouble that the Headmaster can't buy or wheedle him out of. Quite an accomplishment, Potter. I don't think any student at Hogwarts has ever managed it, before. Even attempted murder couldn't do that for your idiot Godfather."

"Don't you dare talk about Sirius like that after you got him killed!"

"Silence!" Snape roared. Harry began to be worried. There was something very wrong with Snape. He was not only nasty, which was par for the course with him, but somewhat frightened as well, which was not at all usual for Snape. "Sirius Black died because both he and you were undisciplined fools who fell into a trap that a first year could have pointed out to you. 25 points from Gryffindor for making false accusations against a professor."

Snape sat back down at his desk and regarded Harry as if he were a bit of dried worm. "So, the famous Harry Potter thinks that he does not have to pay his life debts to other wizards. He thinks that there will be no consequences for this. Tell me, Potter, do you really think I have saved your life countless times out of devotion to your father? Frankly, I've had little other choice."

With a swift motion, he got up, drew his wand, and handed it to Harry. "Take it." He ordered.

Not understanding what this was about, Harry took Snape's wand, and sat holding it dumbly in his hand.

"Well, don't just sit there looking as stupid as you undoubtedly are." Snape said after several seconds. "Try using it. A simple spell will do. Wingardium Leviosa, I think. Oh, do cast it on something unbreakable. That scroll on the end of my desk will do."

Taking a firmer grip on the end of Snape's wand, Harry pointed it at the scroll and cast the simple first-year spell. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

The results were less than dramatic. The scroll wobbled for a bit, slowly rose a few inches in the air, then began to shake, and fell down to the ground. Snape picked it up, and looked at Harry with an oddly satisfied look. "So, do you understand yet, Potter, what you have done to yourself with your foolish arrogance?"

Harry looked at Snape's wand, wanting to believe this was a trick of some kind, but knowing in his heart that it wasn't. "Is it because it's not my wand, that it doesn't work right for me."

"No, Potter, that is not why. As you know full well. I believe your friend Weasley was able to function at least somewhat adequately with a hand-me-down wand for a number of years."

"Then why didn't the spell work?" Harry demanded.

"I already told you, Potter, but apparently you weren't paying attention. You owed a life debt to another wizard. This Michael Von Richthoven, I believe Dumbledore said he was. He could have demanded anything. Your permanent enslavement, for instance. And you would have been obligated to pay. Instead he went remarkably easy on you. All he wanted was for you to answer a few questions for him. But could you do that? No. The famous Harry Potter had to finally display his arrogance one time too often. You would not pay your debt to him. Well, Potter, if you don't pay life debts one way, you'll pay them another."

"I don't understand." Harry said with a tremor in his voice. "How am I paying? What's happening to me?"

"Why, what happens to every wizard who refuses to pay a life debt that demanded of him." Snape said, sounding quite cheerful at Harry's fright. "Your magic is being drained. Transfered to Michael Von Richthoven."

"No, that's not fair!" Harry stood up. Magic was his entire life, the only way he could ever get away from the Dursleys. "I won't let that happen. Dumbledore can do something!"

"Dumbledore can't do anything." Snape told him. "This is immensely ancient and powerful magic. Dumbledore would have to be a god to even begin to do anything about it. The only one who can do anything about it is you."

"Well then what do I do? Tell me."

"Simple. You pay your debt to Michael Von Richthoven, and answer whatever questions he had for you. Oh, and I would recommend doing so in the next month. After that, your magic will be entirely drained, and the effect will be irreversible. And it will all be for nothing. Dumbledore's told me something about this Richthoven. I doubt very much that he will give up looking for the answers he wants simply because he's drained all your magic. After a month is up, he'll come after you again. And again. And again. He won't give up, ever. Sooner or later he will get hold of you. And then, beleive me, you'll answer his questions. One way or the other."

"Why didn't anyone ever tell me this before?" Harry demanded. "That your magic could be drained if you didn't pay a life debt."

"Didn't tell you, Potter?" Snape said smoothly. "Dear me, I have a distinct recollection of spending 15 minutes discussing the subject in your Defense against the Dark Arts class back in the third week of September this year. I believe you were passing notes with Mr. Weasley at the time. Isn't that unfortunate? However, I hardly think it would be fair to the rest of the class to artificially hold them back and repeat the same topics endlessly until you see fit to pay attention to them."

He gave Harry another nasty look, making the boy shrivel in his chair.

"I can't tell Richthoven what he wants to know. He wants me to betray..." He trailed off. He did not want to mentions Umbridge's name in front of Snape, as he would no doubt go out immediately and tell it to Richthoven himself. "He wants me to betray someone to him. I can't do it. It wouldn't be right."

"Oh, it would offend your ethics. It wouldn't be honorable, is that it, Potter?" Snape said. Harry nodded dumbly. "Well, I suggest you ask yourself Potter, which you would rather lose: your honor or your magic. And then I suggest you ask yourself whether giving this person's name to Richthoven would actually BE dishonorable, or simply make you FEEL dishonorable. There is a difference, you know. And given the sort of crimes this Richthoven has been committing, I suspect that the latter is more likely the case."

Harry did not understand the fine distinction between being dishonorable and merely feeling thus, that Snape was refering to. He shook his head. "I can't do it. And what sort of crimes has he committed. He mentioned to me that he tortured people. It's strange that I haven't read about any of that in the newspaper, though."

"The Daily Prophet is a remarkably poor source of information for certain types of crimes, Potter." Snape said, his voice dripping with contempt. "It only reports those crimes which have had a complaint regarding them filed with the Ministry of Magic."

"I don't understand. If someone were tortured, surely they would report it?"

Snape's look of contempt for Harry deepened. "Oh, certainly. If someone comes in and tortures Bellatrix Black, she's going to go straight to the aurors and complain about it. Even if it's someone who isn't going to be arrested on sight, there are a multitude of reasons someone would choose not to go to the authorities. For instance, if the reason they were tortured was to get information on something they did which was illegal, do you think they would want to admit their involvement in those crimes?"

"Oh." Harry thought about this and decided it made sense, though it showed him a picture of a far more corrupt world than he really wanted to believe in. "If they don't tell the ministry, than how does anyone find out about it. Like Dumbledore."

"The ministry is not the only source of justice, Harry. Simply the only official one. The Dark Lord himself is actually a source of justice, if you want to be technical about the matter. He will avenge most crimes against his followers. There are other means of justice as well. Some, of course, are more just than others."

"Well, I'm sure the ministry is the most just." Harry said.

"Is it?" Snape raised an eyebrow, and Harry suddenly wasn't sure about that, anymore.

Snape sat with his hands folded regarding Harry for a long moment. Harry looked back at him, feeling uncomfortable. Snape then opened a small vial filled with a calming draught, took a large swallow, and began speaking again.

"The headmaster has told you that this wizard, Michael Von Richthoven, comes from Gibson Territory, down in Australia." It was not a question.

"Yes."

"To understand a man, Potter, it often helps to understand the culture he came from. What do you know about the Gibsonites?"

Harry thought about this. "Not much. We only studied them for a few days in Professor Binn's class. He didn't have much to say about them, other than that they were 'peculiar'."

"Yes, they certainly are that. There are reasons for that. Do you recall how the Gibsonite wizards originally came to colonize that area of Australia?"

Harry thought for a moment. "They were exiled, weren't they? The muggles were exiling a lot of their criminals to Australia, then, and the Ministry of Magic thought it would be a good thing to do with certain wizard criminals. Better than Azkaban, I guess."

"Yes, I should imagine so. However the wizards who were sent there were not precisely criminals."

"Oh. Who were they, then."

Snape closed his eyes, as if recalling text-books from long ago. "There were three distinct groups of wizards sent to Gibson Territory, Potter. 2 of them were what would properly be termed, 'political dissidents'. One of them disagreed with the treatment of certain groups such as muggleborn wizards, goblins, house elves, and the like. Which had led to a number of disasters, most notoriously, the 'Boston Incident' in 1776, when an untrained muggle-born chronomancer inadvertantly aged a number of people to death after being injured by a muggle musket ball. As well as the Goblin rebellion."

Snape went on. "The second group of political dissidents objected primarily to the use of Dementors. They felt that their use under any circumstances was completely immoral. The two groups joined up and were threatening civil war. It looked to be very bloody for a while. However, they came to an agreement with the ministry. Rather than start an uprising where a lot of people would get killed, they agreed to voluntarily emigrate to Australia."

"I thought they were exiled, sir?"

"Well, given what happened to them, exile would be the more precise term. The ministry of magic misrepresented, shall we say, the conditions of the area of Australia that they were given a charter to. They were led to believe that it was a fairly tropical area. As indeed, Australia is on the coastline. When in reality, the land they were given was a desert. Barely able to support life."

Harry thought about this. "You said there were three groups? Were there more political dissidents?"

"No. The third group was composed of several researchers. Potion Masters, Alchemists, and the like. They heard about the first two groups going to Australia, and decided to join them. They wanted to do research into the magical qualities of flora and fauna that only existed on that continent. The ministry let them go, they believed the loss of a group of their best thaumaturgical researchers was a small price to pay for ridding themselves of a bunch of malcontent rebels at the same time."

Snape looked at Harry, expectantly. "You don't agree with that decision, sir?"

The potions master shrugged. "It hardly matters if I agree with it or not. But I suggest you think about what the results of what the ministry did, were. They sent away not only the wizards with what some might say were the highest ethical standards, but also the wizards with the highest intelligence. And there aren't that many wizards in the first place, Potter. Not compared to muggles. The results of that decision are still affecting England, and not in a good way. You might be interested to know, Potter, that the average intelligence of a wizard from Gibson territory is 5 higher than that of a wizard from England. Not a very large difference, one might say, but over a large span of time, it makes a great deal of difference indeed."

"So what happened to them, when they found themselves in the desert? Found out the ministry had lied to them? Sir." He remembered to add at the last second.

"A quarter of them died in the first three months, Potter."

"I'm surprised they didn't demand to go back!"

"A few of them did, I'm sure. But most didn't want to. They felt they would rather die than go back to a place which was run by 'apostates of the demonic', as they put it. Had it not been for some of the local muggle aborigine tribes having pity on them, they probably all would have died. As it is, a large number of them survived. So, question for you, Potter: The Gibsonites left our country because it was immoral. They were tricked into a situation where they were not likely to survive. And to this day, England continues to engage in those practices they regard as demonic, and is populated by wizards whom they believe are inferior to them in most ways. How do you think they feel about us?"

"I don't know, sir."

"How do you feel about Crabbe, Malfoy, and Goyle, Potter?"

"Well, I don't much like them, sir." He was about to add that he was certain they were up to no good, but was too suspicious of Snape to tell HIM that. Dumbledore and the rest might insist that the Potion's Master could be trusted, but Harry didn't believe it. Not after what Snape had done to get Sirius killed last year.

Snape peered at Harry, as if divining his unspoken thoughts. "I would say that your 'loathing' them would be a more accurate statement Potter. And believe me when I say that what you feel for Malfoy and his friends is extremely mild in comparison to what most Gibsonites feel for the English Ministry of Magic and those who support it. In their own way, they are doing their utmost to destroy us. They have been for over 100 years now. In a very real sense, we are at war with them, though it is not any sort of war the world has ever seen before. Like nearly everything else they do, it is quite peculiar."

Harry frowned. "I haven't heard about any war between England and the Gibsonite Australians. Professor Binns said that they have a lot of skirmishes with the Eastern Australian wizards, but he didn't say anything about their fighting us."

"War is not fought and won only with violence and spells, Potter." Snape glared at the ignorant boy. "There are other ways. I would have thought you would have learned that from the Headmaster by now, but apparently you haven't. Tell me, Potter. What are the main imports and exports of Gibson Territory. Surely you learned that from your textbooks."

Harry thought for a moment. He did not understand this new line of questioning, but he was fairly sure he remembered what it said on the matter in his magical history books. He answered confidently "Their main import is food... on account of it being so dry there, they can't grow much. And their main export is glassware. About the only thing they can export, they make it out of the sand in the desert."

Snape deflated Harry's triumph over his answer with a single withering look. "That answer is both erroneous, and incomplete, Potter. Gibson Territory imports very little food. They are, in fact, a net food exporter, and the only wizarding country which actually feeds itself, rather than purchasing food from the muggles."

"How, if it's so dry?"

"Irrigation, Potter. I believe the headmaster told you that the Gibsonites are highly skilled apparators? I don't suppose you ever thought to wonder why. They have to be. They apparate enormous quanitities of water from the few lakes that exist out there to supply their needs."

"That's a lot of apparating." Harry said in wonderment.

"Indeed. It keeps them quite busy. Not only training apparators, but recruiting them. Which is their main import, by the way. For over a century now, the Gibsonites have spent a great deal of trouble recruiting the best and brightest wizards from every other nation in the world, and convincing them to move there. They prefer to get them young, before they've had time to form a loyalty to other countries, but they'll take a very talented witch or wizard at any age they can get them."

Harry frowned. "Just talk them into walking away from everything they know. That must be kind of hard. What do they have there to offer them that other countries don't?"

"It's something they don't have that other countries do, Potter. In Gibson Territory, there is no taxation, and also no dementors. The guarantee of being able to keep what you earn and never having to worry about your soul being destroyed is quite attractive to some people, Potter. But that's neither here nor there. The point is that the Gibsons started out 200 years ago being populated by people who were far brighter than average. For approximately half that time, they have been draining the brains of the rest of the world, so to speak. Make no mistake Potter. In their own way, they are quite as elitist as Lord Voldemort. Certainly they have very rigid ideas of who they want to breed with. Unlike Voldemort, however, the Gibsonites have some idea of what they are doing. They comprehend genetics and the undesirability of inbreeding quite well. For 10 generations now, they have been getting smarter, at the expense of the rest of the world."

"Why haven't they been stopped?" Harry said.

"Stop them how, Potter?" Snape said silkily. "It is not illegal for a wizard to move to Australia. And unlike Lord Voldemort, the Gibsonites don't seek to exterminate anyone else, or prevent anyone else from breeding with whomever they choose. They simply have their own ideas of whom they, personally, want as mates. What are you going to do? Tell them they can't marry whom they want? My, my, that's precisely the same restriction the Dark Lord wants to put on the world. And even if you did decide to stop them, it's far too late. Irritating the Gibsonites would destroy our own economy."

"How's that?" Harry said.

Snape folded his hands together. "The main import of Gibson territory is genetic and intellectual raw material. Their main export is identical to their import, after it's been educated. Gibson Apparators are the best. They provide transportation services to almost every other wizarding country in the world. They have cleverly, and legally obtained a monopoly on an essential service that most other wizards don't care to do. And aren't capable of doing anyways, any longer, for the most part, even if they did want to do it. Any country that wants to try to annoy the Gibsonites had better be prepared for a severe cut in their standard of living. After which they will be in no condition to fight the Gibsonites any longer."

"They sound like pretty nasty people." Harry decided. "The Headmaster said they were lacking in compassion."

"Oh, I suppose they are that. However they are not violent. Their only desire is to be left alone, and they have taken steps to see to it that they will be. There is no reason to object to that, unless you are the sort of person who is unable to mind their own business." Snape gave Harry a long look. "The point of all this Potter, is that 15 years ago, the Dark Lord tried to get control of the Gibsonites. His idea was that if he could intimidate them, he could take over the transportation services they provide, and thereby be in a position to control the world by threatening an embargo on those services."

"I see his reasoning. But it didn't work, did it? The headmaster said the apparators there drove him off." Harry frowned, thinking. "Dumbledore said that this wizard, Richthoven, was the head of the apparators at the time, and they wanted to charge him with 'misuse of apparating spells' or something. That doesn't make any sense, though. How do you misuse an apparating spell?"

"Quite easily, Potter. You've seen people splinch themselves before, haven't you?" He waited for Harry to nod, and then went on. "It isn't very difficult at all for a highly trained apparator to apparate away PARTS of people. Permanently. It's a hideous way to die."

Snape took the bottled memory which Harry had brought him. "The headmaster obtained this memory several years ago from one of the very few death eaters to survive the attempt to attack the Gibsonites. He feels that you need to see it. You are dealing with a people with very little mercy, Potter. This is quite ugly, but if you make a mess on my floor after seeing it, you will clean it up. Without magic."

With that, Snape poured the memory into the Penseive. "Put your hand in there, with mine, Potter."

Cautiously, not sure what he was going to see, Harry obeyed. He found gazing up at a Death Eater that was flying on a broomstick above a large structure... no, it was several large structures. Or rather ruins. They seemed to have once been building made mainly of multi-colored glass on a metal framework, but there was little left but smoking remains of furniture, twisted metal beams, and jagged looking piles of glass shards. The pile of glass nearest the broomstick where Harry found himself was blue, there were three other piles which were red, yellow, and white, respectively.

Bodies littered the ground. Some had no apparent injuries, others were twitching and vomitting with the effects of horrible curses, and still others were dismembered, missing limbs or heads.

The noise was appalling, a combination of the crackling fires below, the louder crack of several wizards apparating in quick succession, curses and screams from those fighting, and the moans of the injured lying on the ground. There seemed to be two groups of wizards, the black robed Death Eaters, and a far smaller group wearing blue robes with yellow stars that was belted at the waist and only came down to the knees. Most of them also wore blue cloaks, and pins on their breasts with symbols unfamiliar to Harry. The blue robed wizards were obviously badly outnumbered as they fought the Death Eaters, but seemed to be holding their own, nonetheless. As Harry watched, on of the blue robed wizards waved his wand at a broomstick mounted Death Eater. The rear half of the broom suddenly vanished, apparated away, and the Death Eater fell helplessly 20 feet to the ground, landing on top of a jagged peice of glass, that impaled him. He twitched and screamed as he was transfixed there, the sharp edges of the glass inexorably severing him in two, until he either bled out or the glass cut through some vital organ, and he mercifully died.

"Over here, Potter." Snape was standing there near him. "That's Richthoven, over there. Keep an eye on him, he's quite fast."

A blue robed wizard with several burns and injuries was apparating rapidly from one place to another. He appeared, partly behind one of the twisted metal beams, and pointed his wand at a Death Eater who was in the process of casting a curse. There was a 'crack', and the top half of the Death Eaters head was simply gone. Blood poured out from the lower half of his brain, like water from a fountain, and there was a horrible look on the Death Eater's face as he simply collapsed to the ground, blood still spilling out from what was left of his head.

The wizard apparated again, and pointed his wand at another Death Eater. The 'crack' of his apparation spell was oddly muffled this time, which puzzled Harry for a moment. Then a bloody mass appeared in the air, at first Harry did not recognize it, and then realized that it was a large section of someone's lungs and intestines. The Death Eater who had been thus disemboweled looked shocked rather than frightened for a moment, as the skin over his abdomen suddenly caved into the newly emptied space. Then blood began pouring from his mouth, nose, and nether regions as well. He raised his wand arm as if to cast a curse, but then it fell, and the Death Eater collapsed to the ground, his head buried in a pile of his own bloody and shit-smeared innards. Richthoven gave an oddly satisfied smile, and continued to slaughter Death Eaters, as dispassionately as a farmer mows down wheat with a scythe

"He's a damned murderer!" Harry choked, disgusted at the bloody display. Richthoven was not the only Apparator engaged in the massacre. There were now more dead Death Eaters than dead Apparators, he saw. A few of the Apparators were hastily casting anti-apparation wards around the battlefield. Harry did not understand this, until he saw a few frightened Death Eaters try to apparate away, only to be stopped at the wards. Then he comprehended. The apparators did not intend to let them retreat or surrender. They intended to slaughter every last one of the Death Eaters. A few of the Death Eaters managed to apparate away through a hole where the wards had not yet been put up, including apparently the one who the memory was taken from, because everything went black for a moment, and then Harry found himself standing in an empty field elsewhere with several other injured Death Eaters, but no more of the terrible blue-robed Apparators, or their sadistic leader, Richthoven.

"He's a filthy damned murderer." Harry repeated, finding himself back in Snape's office once again. He had to struggle to keep himself from vomitting, even though there was little but tea in his stomach. "How could he do something like that? They were trying to get away. He could have let them surrender, turned them over to the Ministry."

"Murderer, Potter?" Snape raised an eyebrow. "A killer, perhaps. But murder implies the killing of the innocent. Those Death Eaters were attacking their school, Potter. They would have murdered helpless children, had Richthoven and his Apparators not intervened."

"They could have let them surrender. Why did they have to slaughter them, when they were trying to give up and get away?"

"You are speaking like a child, Potter." Snape said coldly. "You are letting yourself be ruled by your emotions at the sight of a few bits of bloody meat. The Gibsonites had very practical reasons for doing what they did. I told you that their main ambition is to be left alone. Lord Voldemort did not leave them alone. So they made it very clear that the price of attacking them was much higher than it was worth. It worked, too. Voldemort gave all of his followers strict instructions never to enter Gibson Territory ever again, until he said otherwise. Which is more than the Ministry of Magic has ever managed to accomplish."

Of course, not all of them obeyed Lord Voldemort, Snape thought to himself. Some few fools went back looking for revenge. The damned bastards. Their mistake of 15 years ago was now likely to cost him, personally, far more than the magic Potter stood to lose. It could cost him his very soul. But he let no hint of his fear show on his face as he spoke to Harry.

"Feel like talking to Richthoven yet, Potter?" Snape said nastily.

But all Harry could do was shake his head. "I, I don't know. I need time to think. How can I cooperate with someone like that?"

"Fine. Then you'd best go to your room and pack your things. As you are losing your magic, you are remarkably vulnerable to the Dark Lord. If he should find how helpless you are, he would undoubtedly try to have you killed immediately. So until you manage to make up your mind whether you want to pay your life debt, or live the rest of as a muggle, you are going to have to go somewhere where you will be safe from him.

"And where is that?" Harry said sullenly.

"Why, the only place where Voldemort is at all afraid to go, Potter. Why do you think I've wasted the past hour educating you about their culture? The headmaster is making arrangements for you to be hidden in Gibson Territory itself!"

Harry could not have been more stunned. He stood there gaping dumbly at Snape.

"Stop standing there, Potter, and get moving. Oh, and I would recommend that you not tell your friends Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger where you are going. Unless of course you want either the Dark Lord or Michael Von Richthoven to come asking them about it."

Snape got up. "I'll meet you in the headmaster's office in one hour. So I suggest you not delay overly long."

"You? What do you need to meet me for? Won't I be going with Dumbledore."

"Alas, no." said Snape, sounding as if he was quite enjoying Potter's discomfiture with the entire situation. "The headmaster has numerous other duties which he must attend to. So he has asked me to accompany you to Australia."

"You mean I'm going to be alone in a strange country with YOU?" Harry was disgusted. How could Dumbledore do this to him?

"Believe me, Potter, it's no more enjoyable a thought for me than it is for you. Since for among other reasons, you are not capable of providing me with any intelligent conversation, and will no doubt require me to waste a good deal of my time preventing you from getting into trouble. You will not find the Gibsonites as forgiving as the Headmaster of your immature and impulsive behavior."

"I am not immature." Harry said.

Snape gave him a disgusted look. "There are other reasons I am going with you as well. For one thing, I happen to know a Gibsonite. He used to be a classmate of mine. He was recruited by the Gibsonites when they became aware of his particular talents, and defected there a week before he graduated."

"Who was he? What talents did he have that they wanted him so bad?"

Snape looked almost wistful for a moment. "His name, Potter, was Andre DeVries. As for his talent, let's just say that in Gibson Territory, he is commonly known at The Parselmouth."

If Harry had been stunned before, now he was shocked beyond words. He stared at Snape a moment more, then turned to go up to the Gryffindor rooms and pack his suitcases.


	17. Chapter 17

As soon as Harry left his office, Snape hurried up to the Headmaster's office. The information he had received from Dumbledore's patronus had gotten him worried, far more worried than he had been in a very long time.

"Severus," Albus greeted him as he entered. "You must explain to me again what you had your patronus tell me. You say that you know about this dementor that the wizard is looking for? Why have you never mentioned it before?"

The headmaster's expression was sorrowful, as if chiding a relcalcitrant child.

Snape sighed. "Frankly, headmaster, because I did not regard it as important. To be quite truthful, I had all but forgotten about the incident."

"In light of recent events, Severus, I would have to say that is not the case." Dumbledore shook his head. Things were becoming far more complicated than he would have liked. "It would seem to be very important indeed. But how did you come to be involved in it? You were not among those who attacked the Gibson Academy. So tell me about those who were. Why did they choose you to be the secret keeper for them?"

"No, I wasn't." Snape closed his eyes slightly, remembering back. "It's a complicated tale, Headmaster. Those involved were being treacherous to a number of different parties, including the Dark Lord himself."

"Indeed. Some might be surprised, but I am not." Dumbledore silently offered the Potion's Master a dish of lemon drops, which he pushed away with an angry gesture. "Well, start at the beginning and tell me what you think I need to know."

"Well, you are familiar, headmaster, with the fact that over 15 years ago, the Dark Lord decided on what turned out to be a disastrous course of action. As direct violence had failed him, in his attempts to gain control of England, he decided to try indirect violence. Most wizards, particularily the sort who populate the Ministry of Magic, don't bother to think about the infrastructure necessary to running an economy. Other than to tax it, that is. Voldemort decided to exploit this weakness. He looked for what he thought was the most important, and least well protected link in that economy. Which he decided, after some consideration, was the transportation services provided by the Gibsonites."

"In some ways he was right. The freight portals are a magnificent bit of magical engineering. Like much of the rest of what the Gibsonite's have created, it is vulnerable to violence. There is no way to harden it for war. They haven't the manpower."

"However, Voldemort did not want to destroy the freight portals. That would do him little good. He wanted to control them. And for that, he needed to control the Gibsonites."

Dumbledore's eyebrow's quirked. "That sounds rather inconvenient? Why not simply kill the Gibsonites and replace them with his own people?"

Snape gave him a sour look. "For the same reason that England does not run it's own freight portals, and very few other countries do. He lacks the sort of wizards with the proper skill. Headmaster, for centuries now this country, and most others, has been giving special privileges to a few wizards based on the idiotic fact that their ancestors became wizards an arbitrary number of generations ago. It serves the purposes of those in power, but does little to inspire talent. The purebloods with talent don't bother to develop it. Why should they go to the effort? The system we have guarantees them power and privelege, by the mere fact that they were born. And the opposite is true as well. Why should those of so-called 'lower' birth bother to develop their talents when their only reward for doing so will be to have that talent exploited, and profit purebloods who are their demonstrable intellectual inferiors?"

"Very true." Dumbledore said, nodding. He had noticed this at Hogwarts even back as a student, long over a century ago. With a very few exceptions, the only wizards who bothered going to any great efforts to improve themselves any more were Half-bloods, those who, if they were very lucky, and tried very hard indeed, might possibly have a chance to improve themselves. But as time went on, their chances of success were becoming less and less, hampered not only by traditions that favored purebloods, but policies of the Ministry that taxed and otherwise punished success in ANYONE, regardless of their heritage.

"I know that you are one of the very few who ever followed Voldemort who has a Master's degree in any magical discipline." Dumbledore noted.

"Yes." Snape nodded slightly, acknowledging the praise. "It's why I rose so quickly in the Death Eater ranks, despite my parentage. But you see why he could not simply take over the portals themselves. His followers might be very skilled at rape, torture, and the Dark Arts. But they know little or nothing about such things as long distance apparating, runes, arithmancy, or any of half a dozen other subjects needed to run the freight portals. And without the freight portals, wizarding England would disintegrate. Our economy would collapse. Voldemort wants to rule England, not destroy it."

"At least not yet." Dumbledore said. "His ultimate goal is immortality. I imagine he would destroy the world entire, if it meant he could acheive it."

"Possibly. But for the time being he needs the world fairly intact." Snape said. "So he wanted to get control of the Gibsonites, so that they would control the freight portal on his behalf. And he would use his control of the freight portal to control England. But first he had to control the Gibsonites."

"A difficult proposition." Dumbledore noted. "They are a contrary people. They don't take orders well, even from eachother. They would hardly be likely to take orders from Voldemort. And having no recognizable government as such, there is no-one in that country who has the authority to surrender."

"All good points. And ones Voldemort failed to understand. He took their lack of government as a weakness." Snape sighed. "It's a common misconception, one that has been deliberately perpetrated by governments. That Anarchy is synonymous with disorder, and hence weakness. Anarchy merely means the absence of a parasitical government. Anything else associated with it is merely incidental."

"Disorder, Albus? England has been tearing itself to peices two or three times a century, in order to support the purposes of those in our 'orderly' government. Which inevitably involve robbing, oppressing or killing one group in order to provide an unearned benefit to another." Snape gave one of his best sarcastic looks. "Naturally the first group objects sooner or later, and then you have war."

"Meanwhile, the disorderly, anarchistic Gibsonites have had over 200 years of peace. Since they have no government to mind anyone else's business for them, and are skilled enough at magic that it is clear to anyone that attacking them for their little peice of desert would cost far more than it was worth. The Dark Lord thought this was weakness, that not having fought in all that time meant they would be lacking in the ability to fight, if they had to." Snape gave a hoarse laugh. "He found out otherwise. Gibson Territory is a meritocracy. It favors the able, not the politically popular. He may have convinced the Ministry here to violate their own treaties with Gibson and not intervene in his attack on them, but he could hardly persuade the Gibsonites not to defend themselves. And they are good at self defense, Albus. Very very good. They have to be, since they don't permit themselves the deadly illusion that any government, or anyone else, has a greater interest in keeping their skins intact than they, themselves, do."

"I take it the Death Eaters found themselves outclassed?" Albus poured two cups of tea, handing one to a grateful Snape, who sipped it, before going on.

"Oh, just a little bit outclassed." Snape said testily. "He attacked what he thought was a weak target, one that would sufficiently frighten the Gibsonites into obeying his every whim. Their largest, and oldest school, the Gibson Academy. He intended for the Death Eaters he sent to raze it to the ground, and kill every student there, starting with the youngest. In a way, he did choose one of the few targets that would greatly affect the Gibsonite psyche if it were destroyed. Unfortunately for the Dark Lord, the effect it had on the Gibsonites, was to cause rage, not fear. And the attack was not even successful, either."

Snape thought back for a moment, remembering how angry the Dark Lord had been when he heard, from the few survivors, what had happened over in Australia.

"As I said, the Ministry of Magic refused to help the Gibsonites when they called them for aid with the attack. Despite the fact that they were legally and morally obligated to do so. I believe they were being bribed by Lucius Malfoy, and no," Snape raised one hand to cut off Albus's question. "I can't prove it was him. Though he does have the money to do so. It may not even have been. I don't know."

Snape thought for another minute. "Actually, preventing Ministry involvement was probably a grave mistake on the Dark Lord's part. Had the ministry come to deal with the situation, it actually would have gone far better for him. There would have been the usual arrests, of course, followed by releases when he followers claimed to be under the "Imperio" curse, and perhaps two or three of them would be tossed into Azkaban, where they could eventually have been gotten out. But instead of dealing with the Ministry aurors, his Death Eaters ended up having to deal with the Gibson Territory Apparator's guild. Who were no doubt summoned by some student or professor sticking his head in the floo and screaming for help."

"Up until that point, Voldemort regarded the Apparators as a joke, Albus. Glorified plumbers and dock workers who spent their time apparating water and freight for a few Galleons. Fit only to be enslaved. Well, he found out, didn't he." An inscrutable look passed over Snape's face. "That a wizard who can open a portal to apparate tons of water hundreds of miles, or a huge stack of crated cauldrons from China to England has no difficultly at all in apparating off a few dozen pounds of flesh from a human body. And they had no interest in playing by the 'rules' Voldemort has found so convenient, and merely capturing his followers for show trials and brief imprisonments. They slaughtered them. Almost entirely to a man."

"Oh, their school was destroyed, which Voldemort hoped would demoralize them, but it didn't. A few of the professors died, but every last one of the students survived. They left through the floo immediately after the school was attacked. Apparently they practiced periodic drills in evacuating the place." Snape laughed again, and nearly choked. "The whole country is a miniature armed camp, Albus. Like the muggle Switzerland. The Death Eaters who died were attacking nearly empty building, with only a few professors to cast curses and distract them while the students got away and the Apparators came to kill them. All they managed to do was to wreck the building. It took the Gibsonites less than three months to rebuild it, bigger than it had been before."

"I imagine Voldemort was not very pleased." Dumbledore noted.

"Voldemort was bloody furious." Snape said, annoyed at the Headmaster's talent for vast understatement. "He was Crucio'ing everyone in sight for weeks, even those who had nothing at all to do with the failed attack. Then he gave one of the few smart orders he has ever given his followers and told them that henceforth, until further notice, they were not to attempt any hostile actions against Gibson Territory, or Gibsonite Wizards. It was a sensible order, though it actually helped the Gibsonites as well."

Dumbledore nodded. One Death Eater or the other had let slip that the Dark Lord considered it forbidden to initiatate hostility against the Gibsonite wizards. When the fact became common knowledge, Gibsonite wizards found new employment as escorts for caravans with important people or cargo.

"A sensible order," Snape mused. "Though apparently not all of the Death Eaters were inclined to follow that order."

"I gathered as much." Dumbledore said. "From all that I have learned of what happened. They went back, didn't they? For revenge?"

"A fools revenge." Spat Snape. "There were not many survivors of that attack. The few that did survive were not happy. They had been humiliated by the Gibsonites, and tortured by the Dark Lord for that humiliation. They needed someone to blame. They could hardly safely blame the Dark Lord. So they decided to blame one of the Gibsonites, the head of the Apparator's Guild that had so thoroughly beaten them."

"Michael Von Richthoven." Dumbledore stated with confidence.

"Yes." A flicker of fear passed over Snape's face, then was gone, buried under his discipline of Occlumency. "They focused their hatred on him. They found him somehow, when he wasn't protected. A lot of the Apparators were killed in the attack on the Death Eaters. So finding him alone probably wasn't hard."

He rubbed his head. "I'm not clear on what happened next. From what you told me, and Potter told you, they apparently had found out he was married to a muggle, which a number of people knew, but could not find out who she was or where she was, because Richthoven had protected her with the Fidelius charm. He was the secret keeper. But they apparently tortured it out of him, then left him for dead, before going after his wife."

"He did not die, though. He took unicorn blood." Dumbledore said. "At least that is what he told Harry."

"Yes, your Patronus mentioned that. However, this is where I am somewhat confused, Albus." Snape gave an unhappy look. He was a precise man, and did not like mysteries. "His symptoms are not consistent with the ingestion of unicorn blood. I have had plenty of time to observe Lord Voldemort, who took unicorn blood, and have read other accounts of those who also did so. There are a number of discrepencies between what I have observed and read, and what Harry claims to have observed in Richthoven."

He pursed his lips. "Do you think that Potter's statements are entirely accurate? His powers of observation do leave a great deal to be desired. Perhaps I should look at his memories in a pensieve."

The headmaster shook his head. "I am confident that Harry's statement is fairly accurate. It is my belief that there is some difference between Michael Von Richthoven and other people who have taken Unicorn Blood. For one thing, if he displayed the usual effects of it, he would have simply tortured Harry for the information he wanted, and then killed him. For another, he told Harry that he did not kill the Unicorn in question. Unlike Lord Voldemort and everyone whom you have read about."

"Well, if he didn't kill the unicorn, then how did he get it's blood?" Snape spread his hands helplessly. "There are a few ancient accounts of those who persuaded a unicorn to give small amounts of blood voluntarily. However, if that were the case, he would not be displaying any abnormalities at all. And charming a unicorn into doing such a thing requires that one be a virgin. As Richthoven was married, I don't think he qualifies."

Dumbledore thought. "It's an interesting question, Severus, and I feel that it may be important. But there is no way to answer it now. So, let's get back to the subject on hand. From what Richthoven told Harry, the Death Eaters came after his wife, and sucked her soul out with a Dementor. Richthoven himself, after having saved his life somehow with unicorn blood found her in that condition. According to Harry, he then killed her. Though by any meaningful standard, she was already dead, and worse then dead."

Dumbledore looked terribly sad, then got up, and hobbled over to a small table, where he took out two bits of newspaper.

"This was sent to me through the floo, just before, by Andre DeVries. He used to know Richthoven, before the attack. Perhaps you should read it. You might find it interesting."

Snape read the first newspaper article. It was a sadly worded account about how the great hero of Gibson Territory, the best Apparator they or the world had ever seen, Michael Von Richthoven, had inexplicably gone mad and broken his own wife's neck. He was found by what seemed to be a sort of Gibsonite private detective or perhaps bounty hunter called a 'Justicar' sitting next to the body and screaming incoherently. He was brought in for trial, but had been judged unfit to be on trial. He would not stop screaming. And he was displaying a number of magical syndromes that their mediwizards had never seen before, and couldn't sort out. So rather than putting him on trial, he was going to be permanently confined in solitary confinement in the insanity ward of a wizarding hospital.

Snape finished the article.

"He seems to have gotten somewhat better since then." He noted wryly. "He isn't screaming mindlessly any more."

The second article was shorter. The tone was almost relieved, it seemed. Though knowing what he did, Snape was alarmed by what it said. Apparently Richthoven had only screamed for a month or so while in the mental hospital. Then he had sat in his cell, saying nothing at all for nearly a year.

Then he had simply vanished.

Through wards that Snape doubted he could have gotten through, with the best of wands. Richthoven had taken them down with a crudely carved bit of wood that he had apparently apparated, wandlessly, out of of one of the decorative support beams in the ceiling.

Dumbledore noticed that Snape had finished reading the second article. "From that day to this, no-one has seen Michael Von Richthoven. At least, no-one who will admit to it officially. Though I am quite certain now, that he has been around. I imagine the Death Eaters who had you hide the Dementor for them fled England after Lord Voldemort was nearly destroyed by Harry long ago, both to escape the Aurors, and to escape Richthoven. Though I believe he eventually found most of them. I have heard reports and rumors, over the years, of mysterious attacks and torturings in remote parts of the world, that did not quite seem to be the Death Eater's Modus Operendi. I did not know what to think of them. Now I do."

He took the articles and put them back. "So, Severus. Tell me of these Death Eaters. You say they came to you, to hide the Dementor, which I am certain was the same one they used to attack Richthoven's wife. Why did they come to you? And why hide it at all?"

"Yes." Snape nodded. "I suppose they came to me, because I was foolish enough to be tricked. Much as it galls me to admit it, I was very young at the time. I thought I was tricking them, that they were worried over nothing. After all, who would come looking for a Dementor? Anyone in their right mind would keep away from the damned things. But then, I suppose Richthoven is not entirely in his right mind."

"Insane, perhaps." Dumbledore said. "Though there may be a method to his madness. Love can make one do peculiar things."

"Yes, well," Snape grew uncomfortable as he did whenever the elderly headmaster grew too sentimental. "As it turns out, they did have reason to be afraid. Not only had they disobeyed the Dark Lord, but they had probably heard rumors of Richthoven's having survived their attempt to kill him, and were worried he would come after them. In fact, from the way they acted, I now think they were probably more afraid of Richthoven than they were of the Dark Lord."

"That seems rather odd." Dumbledore said. "I cannot imagine any Death Eater fearing anyone or anything more than Lord Voldemort."

"Not so odd, given what he said to Harry." Snape paused for a moment, and pressed his hands together thoughtfully. "He said he was going to get his wife back."

"That is not possible." Dumbledore said. "Once a dementor takes a soul, it is gone forever. This is why I have always opposed their use, if a mistake were ever to be made, and an innocent soul taken, nothing could be done about it."

"I don't know if it's possible or not, Albus." Snape said. "But the point is, that whether or not it is actually possible, Richthoven believes it to be. Which means that he is setting out on a very deadly course of action."

Dumbledore actually looked puzzled. "And that would be?"

Snape could not help but grin slightly, at actually knowing something that the Headmaster did not. "I have read a very few books about the Dark Arts, Albus, with rumours of a ceremony. Something to free a soul from the Dementors. But they are universally very Dark spells. Probably far darker than the creation of a horcrux. It involves trading one soul, to free another."

Dumbledore was obviously disturbed by this. "So, he intends to sacrifice the soul of one of the Death Eaters to free his wife? I'm not sure he has the right to do that."

"Oh, I think he does have the right to do it," Snape said. "And I suspect that it's exactly what he intends to do. They study the Dark Arts quite a bit at Gibson. Plus they live side by side with the Aborigines, who actually have the oldest muggle and magical culture on the planet. They both go back at least 50,000 years. They've probably forgotten more magic than the rest of the world has ever learned. But the problem is, that it won't work. I've done the Arithmancy. The Dementor would simply eat up the soul offered to it. It wouldn't give any other soul back in return. You can't give back a soul that's been destroyed."

"Then I can't let him do that." Albus said. "Even if it could work, I don't think I could let him do that."

"Well, how do you think I feel," Snape said. "Given that I'm the secret keeper, and the last of the Death Eaters he will have to visit, before he finds the damned thing, he's likely to try and use ME to feed to it. Why do you think I asked you to send me out of England immediately?"

"I see." Dumbledore got up and started pacing. "This is quite a dilemna. I cannot let Richthoven give your soul to the Dementors, Severus. You hardly deserve it. You had no way of knowing at the time what that particular dementor had been used for. But what am I going to do about Harry? If he does not give Lord Richthoven his information within a month, he will lose his magic forever. I can't let that happen."

"And why not?" Snape asked.

"Why not? Dumbledore nearly gaped. "Harry is the prophecied one. He needs to confront Voldemort and destroy him. He can hardly do that, if his magic is gone."

"Well, there are other alternatives, Albus," Snape said smoothly. "You know as well as I do, that if this Michael Von Richthoven is absorbing Harry's magic, he is also absorbing other things about Harry. His fate. The prophecy about him. Already the protection from his mother's bloodline is gone, you saw that as clearly as I did. I say, why not things stand as they are? Since Potter in his arrogance and stupidity has kindly provided us with a far superior replacement for himself, why not keep that replacement? Let this Apparator, Richthoven fight Voldemort for us, and afterwards, we can either show him the proof that what he is attempting will not work, or else give him unlimitted resources to attempt to find something that WILL work."

"Snape, that is horrible! You would simply let Harry be ruined and lose his magic? After what happened to his parents?"

"Headmaster, I am as sorry for what happened to his mother as you are, you know that." Snape said. "But I am also a realist. Look at the facts, Albus. Michael Von Richthoven is a very dangerous, and highly trained wizard. He has thwarted Voldemort at least 3 times that we know of, once when he beat his Death Eaters, once when he didn't die when he should have, and again just yesterday, when he snatched Harry out from under his nose. And what has Harry done? Albus, I know you've tried to give him a happy life here, but your protection has made him weak. His been spending his time getting into trouble with his friends, playing Quidditch and eating candy in Hogsmeade village, when he ought to have been studying every offensive spell there is to give him a decent chance against the Dark Lord. Now it's far too late. Sending Potter out against Voldemort would be like sending a kitten out to fight a lion. Potter would simply be slaughtered, Albus. Let Richthoven take his place. He has a far better chance of beating Voldemort than Harry does."

"Beating him? And then what? Richthoven is no longer human, any more than Voldemort is. We would merely be replacing an English Dark Lord with an Australian one. I can't imagine that would be an improvement."

"It can't possibly be any worse! And may be far better. He has no followers, and doesn't seem to want any. Even if he spent all his time killing, he could not equal the damage caused by Voldemort's armies of Death Eaters. And he does not seem to be as ultimately corrupted as Voldemort. He didn't kill the unicorn, after all, and didn't hurt Potter very badly, despite all the whining he did about it."

Dumbledore shook his head. "No. I can't do that to Harry. He deserves his chance to confront Voldemort, after what happened to his parents."

Snape glowered. "Albus, Harry's parents are not the only ones to suffer from the Dark Lord's madness! Take a look at Longbottom's parents, sometimes. Hundreds of wizards have been driven mad, mutilated, and killed. How many more are going to suffer the same fate while you wait for Potter to perform an unlikely miracle?"

The headmaster seemed to consider it again. "I still can't do it. I feel in my heart that the Dark Lord must be destroyed by someone capable of love. Real love, not whatever twisted, cruel version of it Richthoven might still feel for his wife. Otherwise whoever destroys him will just take his place. I'm willing to wait a little while longer for a world finally free of Dark Wizards like Voldemort and Grindewald."

"Love, Albus?" Snape actually sneered at Dumbledore. "You place so much faith in that emotion. But how valuable is it, really? A dog can love, Albus. Someone as twisted as Bellatrix Black can love, in her own peculiar way. When are you ever going to learn that love is only as valuable as the person doing the loving, and their reason for doing so? Potter may be able to love, but so long as he remains mindless and incompetent, that emotion is worthless and useless in him."

"I don't think any human being is worthless." Dumbledore said quietly. "Even you, I gave another chance, when everyone else said you were worthless."

Snape said nothing, and simply fumed. Had Dumbledore not displayed his vaunted 'love' to the idiot marauders who tried to kill him, rather than giving him justice in the first place, the 'second chance' would never have been necessary. He would have been saved at the 'first chance' as would have been far more proper.

"My mind is made up." Dumbledore finally said firmly. "You are going to go with Harry to Gibson Territory. I think the trip will do you both good. I trust you have informed Voldemort of this?"

"Yes." Snape nodded. "The Dark Lord will not be pleased, but he will accept it. He knows as well as I do that I am unlikely to be able to take the one you are sending Potter to unawares, and her particular unique talents which enable her to protect Potter from both Richthoven and the Dark Lord himself mean that I will not be able to attempt anything against him either. I imagine he will punish me as a matter of course when I return, but probably not too badly."

"Good, then." There was the sound of the doorway at the bottom of the stairs opening, and then of footsteps. "That would be Harry. So, I suppose there will be nothing to worry about. At least not for another month."

"Not unless Potter annoys the Gibsonites. They have little patience, you know. I'll keep an eye on the boy, but unless I imperio him, I can't control his behavior completely." Snape pressed his lips together. He had a private bet with himself that Potter could not last a week where they were going without getting either challenged to a duel or hauled into court to have his ass sued off.

"You best is all I can ask, Severus. You've given me more than anyone else ever has. I only regret having to ask more of you."

"Forget it." Snape got up and went to the door. "Let's me get Potter, and we'll be on our way."


	18. Chapter 18

Monday December 2. Before Dawn

Harry came up the stairs to Dumbledore's office carrying a suitcase full of changes of clothes, a few of his favorite books, and other belongings that he thought he might need while in Australia. Snape was inside, glowering at Dumbledore about something or the other. Typical of the bloody git, Harry thought. He was the one losing his magic, and here Snape looked more upset than he did.

"Ah, Mr. Potter." Snape glanced at a Grandfather clock along one of the walls of Dumbledore's office. "3 minutes late. I'd normally take 10 points from Gryffindor, but as you are being drained of magic, you are no longer officially a student at Hogwarts."

Harry glared at Snape. He just loved rubbing it in, didn't he. He did not feel much better even after Dumbledore coughed loudly and said "Harry is always welcome here."

"We'd best get going, Potter. We've got a schedule to keep. It will be far more difficult for us to travel later in the morning."

Harry did not understand this. He would have thought it would be easier to travel when the sun was up and you could see where you were going. But then, he wasn't entirely sure how they were getting to Australia. For all he knew, they were being flown there by vampires. He would not put it past Snape to arrange such a thing, merely to discomfit him.

Snape strode from the room, forcing Harry to hurry after him. "We need to get past the wards around Hogwarts, Potter, so we can Apparate to our first stop, and see if they can fit us into their schedule." He said, not bothering to turn around to see if Harry was coming.

"What schedule?" gasped Harry, wondering why Snape didn't have any luggage. "Where are we going?"

"For your edification, Potter, we are going to Brick-Brack Alley." Snape said.

"Where is Brick-Brack Alley?" Harry wondered. "What's there that we need to go there?"

Snape turned and gave Harry a withering look. "Brick-Brack Alley is in London, Potter. It runs parrallel to Diagon Alley, but a couple of blocks away. I'm not surprised that you have never heard of it or been there. It's the sort of place that I'm sure is beneath the notice of a celebrity like you."

"I don't really think any places are beneath my notice." Harry retorted.

"Really?" Snape sneered. "Then it's rather surprising that you have never heard of it, isn't it, Potter. Given that without it's existence, you would not have an owl, or your broomstick, or any of the other useless trinkets you've bought for yourself over the years."

Harry said nothing. Snape's explanation was far from clear, but he was not going to give the unpleasant Potion's Master the satisfaction of asking further questions. As they left the castle, Snape began to speak again.

"Now, I'm going to make some things clear for you, Potter. There are a few things you need to make sure you avoid doing while in Gibson Territory. First and foremost, you are to make very sure that you tell absolutely no-one there what Richthoven told you, about his wife being attacked by a dementor."

"I don't understand. Why not? It isn't our fault what happened." Harry winced as his suitcase banged into his shin.

"Don't be a fool, Potter." Snape snorted. "I believe the headmaster explained to you that the Gibsonite wizards hate dementors. They have gone to a great deal of time and trouble to exterminate them in their own country. I can promise you, Potter, they did not go to that effort because they have nothing else to occupy their time. They did it because they are selfish, and it was in their own best interests to do so. They regard the promise of an eternal afterlife as far too valuable to risk losing for any reason whatsoever. It's been tried a few times before, wizards bringing dementors into Gibson Territory in order to frighten them. It's a very serious mistake. Although they agree on precious little else, the Gibsonites are in entirely unanimous agreement regarding their hatred and fear of dementors. The mere rumor of a dementor will unite them completely, until it is eliminated. And their attitude towards dementors is getting worse, as time goes on. The last time a dementor was brought into their country, nearly 100 years ago, they tortured the wizard who did it to death over a period of several months."

"Dumbledore told me about that." Harry said. "They crucio'ed him. That's pretty disgusting, if you ask me."

"Well, Potter, the Gibsonites do not do what they do for the purpose of pleasing you. They are interested only in pleasing themselves. Bear that in mind. And their attitude towards Dementors has gotten worse since then. Should they find out that another one was brought into their country, and used to drain the soul of the wife of a man who they regard as a hero, they would be completely furious. They would likely go to war with England and attempt to remove the threat permanently, by attempting to remove us. Even if they all died themselves, in the attempt." Snape let Harry digest that fact for a few moments. "Now, do you understand why I tell you to keep your chattering mouth shut, and not mention that fact to the Gibsonites?"

"Yes, sir." Harry said.

"It's a pity you didn't care to learn Occlumency," Snape said. "As there is the chance a Gibsonite could read your mind. But it's unlikely. The Gibsonites regard the performance of Legilemency without consent to be extremely rude."

"Ah, good." Harry said. "So what else should I do or not do, while I am there?"

"The laws in Gibson are fairly simple, Potter. There are only two laws there, in fact." Snape said silkily. "The first of which is that you are neither to harm someone or their property, nor to threaten to do so, nor to get others to do so. The second one is that you are not to tell lies. I realize that both of these will be difficult for you, as you have done little but steal and prevaricate since entering Hogwarts, but I suggest you make the effort. Justice in Gibson Territory is quite exacting, and they are not at all interested in whatever reasons you might have for your criminal actions."

"I don't steal." said Harry, knowing it was a lie. He had stolen several times from Snape. And often lied not only to him, but to Dumbledore as well. He meant well at the time, but now that he reflected back on it, it always seemed to turn out badly in the end. Take the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, for instance. It could very easily have killed someone, and would have been discovered and dealt with far earlier if only he had told Dumbledore the truth about the voices he was hearing, rather than worrying about preserving his own reputation. He squirmed uncomfortably, feeling strangely dirty for a moment. The Gibsonite idea of justice seemed terribly cruel, but was also peculiarly cleansing in a way, rather like alcohol poured on a wound to rid it of infection. Perhaps it was easier for the Gibsonites to accept, Harry reflected, having lived all their lives with such stringent rules.

"I suggest you start practicing truthfulness right now, Potter." Snape said. "And while you are at it, I suggest you reflect on the sort of manners you will need to have in Gibson, if you don't want to get everyone you meet annoyed with you."

"What sort of manners are those? Are they different than their laws?"

Snape thought about that for a few moments. "I would not say that they are different from their laws, so much as they are an extension of them. There are only a few things you need to bear in mind. First and foremost, is to mind your own business. I cannot emphasize that enough. Many of the Gibsonites are somewhat, peculiar, shall we say, in how they choose to conduct their lives. I advise you to ignore anything that you find odd. Making snide little remarks about it, such as you are accustomed to making to Malfoy will get you into trouble."

Harry struggled to control his temper. "Alright, what else?"

Snape turned and gave him a very nasty looking sneer. "Just this, Potter. I realize that as 'The Boy Who Lived' you are accustomed to having people worship the ground you walk on. However, I suggest you get over it. You have no status whatsoever in Gibson Territory. You have no property there, and what little knowledge you have managed to absorb during all your years at Hogwarts puts you on par with one of their third year students. A very poor third year student."

Snape's face twisted with contempt, and he went on. "As such, you will need to do as you are told, both by me, and by anyone whose territory you happen to be occupying at the time. If I tell you to jump, you ask 'how high'. You do not go around looking for the Headmaster to whine to. He is not going to be there, and no-one else there will be at all interested in the complaints of a spoilt little boy, I promise you."

"And I suppose you do have status in Gibson," Harry said resentfully. "Neat trick how you managed that."

"Yes, Potter, I do have status in Gibson." Snape sounded oddly satisfied with himself. "As would Miss Granger, to some extent. The Gibsonites are interested in ability and wealth, in that order. You have none of the former, and no access to the latter, while you are there. I'm warning you, Potter, you had best watch yourself not to engage in your usual poor behavior or otherwise offend anyone in Gibson, or you will most likely end up getting your name put on a list."

Harry mulled over this. "What sort of a list?"

"The sort of list, Potter, that you do not want your name put on." Snape said in a threatening voice, leaving Harry to puzzle and worry over what he could possibly mean, and what sorts of terrible things might happen to him in Gibson if he were to offend people as Snape seemed to think was likely. Simply being on a list was not so bad, there must be something else to it. Or perhaps it was all merely one of the mind games Snape liked to play with him, making unspecified threats, so he would worry himself imagining the worst.

They had come now to the edge of Hogwart's grounds. The moon shone brightly, a half crescent on its way to being full. It brought Remus Lupin to Harry's mind. In another week or so he would become a werewolf, along with the ones he was spying on for Dumbledore. But Harry would be far away, then. He wondered if there were werewolves in Australia, and what sort of lives they led. Did it make any difference to their transformation, that the moon would be on the other side of the sky in a continent below the equator?

"Come on, Potter." Snape was holding out his hand, impatiently. "Take my arm so we can apparate."

Reluctantly, Harry gripped the Potion Master's arm, feeling hard sinewy muscle under his robes and shirt. He felt almost envious for a moment, his own body was rather stringy in comparison. Stirring those cauldrons must be a lot of work, he had time to think, before Snape Apparated, and they whirled away into crushing blackness.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19. Monday December 2. Early Morning. Brick-Brack Alley

After Apparating with Snape, Harry re-appeared with him on a raised round platform made of stone blocks, perhaps about 10 feet in diameter, and 5 feet high. There was a sign post in the center of it reading "Brick-Brack Alley Apparation Platform", and carefully painted runes around the edges. Harry studied the runes as he tried to clear his head, and recognized them as being the inverse of various wards used to prevent apparating, such as the ones around Hogwarts. So they were mean to facilitate apparating, then? But to what purpose? Why apparate to this one particular spot, rather than wherever one chose?

Harry looked up slightly, at the street a few feet away from the Apparation Platform, and began to understand. Despite the ungodly early hour, there was a great deal of traffic. Wagons and large basket carrying broomsticks full of crates, barrels, and other containers were hurrying rapidly up and down a cobblestone avenue, well lit by large Lumos crystals mounted on poles. If one were to merely apparate in the middle of the street, you would likely be run down. Looking around further, Harry saw that on either side of the street were large ugly buildings. They did not resemble muggle buildings, but neither did they resemble the quaint, elegant, or spooky wizarding buildings Harry was familiar with. They looked almost like muggle factory buildings Harry had seen in London when on trips across town with the Dursleys, but made out of different materials. Rather than cement blocks and sheet metal such as muggles would use, they were made from stone, brick, adobe, and wooden planks and logs. They resembled industrial buildings of a few centuries ago, more than anything else. And at the far end of Brick-Brack Alley, a well lighted building which most of the traffic was centered around resembled nothing Harry had ever seen before, as it appeared to be made out of large, irregular shaped chunks of multi-colored glass.

From the height of the Apparation Platform, Harry could see the familiar outline of the shops on Diagon and Knockturn Alley's. He had never seen them from the rear, before, and it took him several moments to recognize the stores. There was Olivander's wand shop, Gringott's bank, the Owl Emporium, and all the other familiar places. Then something odd struck him. He turned to Snape.

"How come I never noticed this place before?" Harry asked. "The buildings here are tall enough, I ought to have been able to see them from Diagon Alley."

Snape shook his head. "There's a disillusionment charm surrounding this whole district, Potter. Most wizards don't care to see Brick-Brack Alley, unless they have business or work here. Now stop gaping at the dragon leather tannery and come on."

He followed Snape down a flight of steps that led off the Apparation Platform, and past the first building, which Harry judged was the tannery Snape had mentioned, if the horrible stench coming from it was any clue.

"Ugh." He complained. "Why don't they use deodorizing wards?"

Snape gave him a patronising look. "They are using deodorizing wards, Potter. Otherwise the smell would be much worse. As, in fact, it is inside the building."

Harry wrinkled his nose at the building. "I'm glad I don't have to work there. I feel mighty sorry for whoever does. I don't see why anyone should have to put up with that."

Snape's look became even more condescending. "I suggest you be glad, Potter, that some wizards are willing to put up with it. Otherwise you would not have any dragonhide gloves for handling hot cauldrons in Potion's class, and no doubt would have burned yourself quite badly several times."

Harry said nothing, but continued to look around at the buildings. One smallish building had a large fenced in area around it filled with bundles of thick staves and bales of straw. Faded painted letters on the wooden side of the building declared that it was the 'Cleansweep Broomstick Fabricators'.

So that was where broomsticks came from, Harry thought. He'd never really considered it before. He had had a sort of mental image in his head of an elderly wizard carefully carving the shaft of his beloved broomstick in a cozy workroom, carefully selecting just the right straws to bind to it. But now that he thought of it, such an idea was obviously utter nonsense. There were far too many wizards who wanted to buy far too many broomsticks. One craftsman working by himself would never have been able to fill the demand.

Most of the buildings were darkened, but a few had lights on, and through the windows, Harry could see wizards working, or loading and unloading wagons and broomsticks. He was grateful as they moved away from the tannery, and the horrible smell vanished. Snape was leading him towards the large building made of glass chunks, where most of the traffic was coming from or going to, and as they drew closer, Harry could see a large sign made of midnight blue glass with white letters that glowed, and spelled out what the building was: "London Freight Portal".

"Why are all these people coming and going so late at night?" He asked Snape.

"The rates are cheaper at night, Potter." He was informed. "The freight portal operates 24 hours a day. Even at that, it barely keeps up with the demand."

Harry looked at some of the wagons going by. There were a lot of items that he recognized. There was a wagon full of cauldrons. There was a smaller wagon with gallon jugs of pumpkin juice. They were now at one of several gateways of the Freight portal, and he and Snape deftly dodged a broomstick with baskets full of tiny vials of Pepper-up potion. Behind it came a cadaverous looking wizard with such a sour expression on his face that it nearly put Snape to shame. There was a suitcase manacled to the wizards hand, and he held his wand with an obviously hostile intent. Harry did not have time to wonder what was in the suitcase, as he had to dodge a plump witch carrying two large sacks of something that was wriggling around and making an ominous buzzing noise. Harry squeezed to one side, not wanting to get anywhere near whatever was in the sacks.

Inside the building were countless large stacks of crates, sacks, barrels, and every other container imaginable. Several wizards with red robes were scurrying around casting levitation spells, in some places removing some of the stacked items, and in other spots, adding new ones. Farther along, Harry saw the wizards with the red robes giving the items to other wizards, more familiarly dressed, or taking the items from them, to be added to the stacks.

One wizard in a red robe was screaming loudly at a goblin that they did not ship to Antartica except on Tuesdays and Thursdays between 9pm and midnight. The goblin was screaming loudly back, but made little sense, as his argument consisted mainly of obscenities in Goblinish.

Harry and Snape moved past them, and entered a large, well lit chamber. The center of the chamber was filled by three enourmous hoops made of what seemed to be solid silver. As Harry drew closer, he could see that the silver was embossed with horribly complicated runes made of solid gold. The center of the hoops shimmered peculiarly, as if the air in it was attempting to condense into mercury. There were lines in front of two of the hoops, from the first one, various wizards, creatures, and vehicles were appearing, obviously apparated from some other place. The line by the second hoop was doing the opposite, wizards and cargo were going INTO it, and then vanishing, apparated to elsewhere. There were several blue robed wizards by each hoop, waving their wands and casting spells in unison, and Harry recognized them as probably being Gibsonite Apparators. At any rate, they were dressed the same way the Apparators in the pensieve memory Dumbldore had shown him had been.

The third hoop, oddly enough, was not being used. Two of the blue robed apparators were standing by it, and gesturing angrily to some detail on the golden runes that Harry could not make out.

"Stop staring, Potter." Snape said. "You look like a fool. Come with me, I have to schedule our departure."

Harry followed Snape, as they went up to a blue-robed wizard who was standing behind a desk full of parchment forms.

"Passage for two." Snape told the wizard.

The wizard nodded. "Destination?"

"Perth."

The wizard looked smiled. "It's a long ways. Going to cost you, mate."

"Fine. How much."

The wizard consulted several of his parchment charts. "I can fit you in at the tail end of the next Perth run. It'll be 10 Galleons, each, for you."

Snape reached into his robes, took out a pouch of coins, and counted out the necessary amount. The wizard squinted at the money, as if suspicious that it might be counterfeit, than put it into a small chest on the table. "You'll be leaving in a little over an hour, at 4:33 exactly. No refunds for missing the Apparating."

He took out two small quartz crystals on slender cords, and tapped them with his wand, muttering an incantation. He handed one to Snape, and one to Harry, who looked at it dumbly.

"What's this?" Harry asked Snape, hating the fact that he had to ask.

"You might say it's your ticket, Potter." Snape said. "Though it is more than that. Among other things, it will start flashing 10 minutes before we have to leave. So you have no excuse for being late."

Then Snape surprised Harry. He waved his arms expansively. "Go on and look around, Potter. Explore. Perhaps you will learn something, though if your performance in Hogwarts is anything to judge by, I seriously doubt it. Just be sure to remain in the building, and get back to these portals in time for us to leave."

More to get away from Snape and his constant stream of unwarranted insults, Harry slipped the cord of the crystal he had been given, and went to look around. First he decided to take a closer look at the freight portals. One of the blue robed wizards announced that there were now 'arrivals from China', and a moment later, several Oriental wizards came out of one of the portals, along with a few wagons carrying sacks of rice and bales of silk. As they were coming into the building, a wizard by another portal announced 'Departures for Peru'. There was only one departure for Peru, a wagon pulled by a stout-looking Ox, and carrying dozens of rolled up tanned dragonhides. Remembering the horrible smell of the tannery, Harry winced. He wondered what they needed so much dragonhide in Peru for.

He watched several more departures and arrivals, before getting bored, and moving along elsewhere in the building. There were some magical moving posters on one wall, which listed forbidden items, which were never to be shipped under any circumstances, and hazardous items, which could be shipped, but required special arrangements and extra fees to do so. The forbidden list was rather short, consisting mainly of Dementors, items which would explode for no good reason, Dementors, anything stolen, Dementors, and body parts of intelligent creatures which had been murdered. And particularly Dementors. The hazardous list was far longer, and Harry was not entirely pleased to see that these Gibsonite Apparators would, for a high enough fee, ship many things which were dangerous, illegal, or the result of the Dark Arts, such as Veela Blood Wine, fireworks, weapons, poisons, dangerous plants and animals, and texts on the the very worst of the Dark Arts, including those which gave instructions on how to create Horcruxes.

Harry felt a sudden stab of anger. Had it been from this freight portal that the Dark Lord obtained the spell books that taught him how to make Horcruxes? How could these people ship such a horrible thing! Didn't they have any sense of morality or responsibility?

"Mercenery pricks." he swore under his breath. What in the world was wrong with these people? They murdered people who were trying to surrender or get away, tortured people to death for breaking their weird laws against Dementors, and did not care at all about keeping dangerous weapons and magic out of the hands of criminals. Well, no wonder Snape wanted to go there. They were just as nasty as he was.

For the life of him, Harry could not understand why Voldemort had attacked the Gibsonites. You would think that people like them would be only to eager to cooperate with him, so long as he paid them enough.

Depressed by the posters, Harry moved on into another part of the building which turned out to be a small restaurant. Apparently a lot of wizards had to wait some time before they could travel through the freight portals, and would get hungry. The menu offered foods he was familiar with, such as pumpkin juice and kidney pies, but also some odd things like 'candied shrimp' and 'roast kangaroo' which he decided must be there for the benefit of the Australian apparators who operated the freight portals.

Harry noticed a flickering, and looked down to see that his crystal had started to flash. Not wanting to be later, he hurried back to the freight portals. Snape was standing by his suitcase, and also had gotten a small trunk of his own from somewhere. Harry wondered how it had gotten there, but decided not to ask. Snape would merely use any questions on his part to make him feel stupid.

"Well, Potter. I'm surprised you decided to show up on time, and in a reasonable fashion, rather than late, and in a flying car." Snape said. "Take your suitcase and get behind me. We'll be apparating shortly through the portals."

Harry thought it rather unfair for Snape to mention the flying car incident from nearly 5 years ago, but said nothing. He took his suitcase, and stood in line. It moved forward steadily, and before he knew it, it was time for them to leave. Feeling apprehensive for the first time, Harry gazed up at the freight portal that loomed in front of him. It literally thrummed with magical energy, and he could feel the floor vibrating under his feet.

"Err, is this safe?" He asked one of the blue-robed wizards. "Does it hurt at all, to go through."

"First time, huh?" The wizard winked at him. "Not to worry, it's a smooth trip. Enjoy it."

He took the quartz crystals from Harry and Snape, cast a spell on them, and then spoke breifly to the other wizards. They raised their wands and pointed them at the silvery structure of the portals, casting a spell to slightly alter the destination.

"Go through!" one of them urged. Seeing Harry's hesitation, Snape seized him by one arm, and yanked him forward, practically throwing him headfirst into the portal.

Harry was frightened for a moment, not sure what to expect. A worse version, perhaps, of the crushing sensation he had felt when apparating with Dumbledore or Snape, or the lurching yank of a portkey on his stomach. But it was nothing like that. Instead he felt a delicious hum through his whole body. The room where the portals were seemed to fade away, and he heard something like a long, perfect musical note. His body seemed to become very small, or perhaps it was the world that was small, and his body was millions of miles long. He was dazed for a minute, and then found himself standing next to Snape in front of another circular freight portal. It was far brighter than it had been, and Harry realized that the sun was shining in through the glass roof of wherever they were. Perth, he guessed. Being several hours ahead in time, it was daytime in Australia, even though it was still dark in England.

A musical note still shook his whole body, and Harry felt himself involuntarily humming it aloud. He recalled what Dumbledore said about some wizards being better at Apparating than he was. Compared to the nearly painful experience he had had of apparating with the headmaster, this was like experiencing a melodic piano concert by a virtuoso after previously only hearing the discordant jangling of an amateur pounding the keys at random. Was it always like this Apparating with a Gibsonite, he wondered? Or was it the freight portals which made the trip go easier?

Snape shook him out of his revery. "Come on, Potter. Stop holding up the line. We need to leave this building in order to Apparate."

"We're in Perth, then?" Harry said agreeably. The note still sounding in his mind was a calming draught to his soul. "Where are we going. You said we were going to meet a freind of yours, the Parselmouth?"

"Yes, right now he's at the Gibson Glassworks." Snape had to talk loudly to be heard over several flying carpets loaded with barrels that zoomed past. Harry gaped at that. Flying carpets were strictly forbidden in England. It was a classified as a misuse of muggle artifacts. Apparently the Gibsonites didn't care about misusing muggle artifacts, so much as they cared about efficiently getting the cargo in and out of their freight portals. And it was efficient, Harry saw. The building and the large doorways were tall enough that several carpets could fly one above the other. Taking advantage of the vertical space, they loaded and unloaded much more efficiently than the wagons and other permitted magical forms of transportation in England which had to spread out horizontally. Oh, the brooms could have flown above one another, but they could not carry much compared to the large carpets.

How much time and money was wasted, using less efficient means of transportation, Harry wondered. Time and money that could have been spent on other things, and probably had to be added to the price of everything shipped to or from England. And what good did it do, other than to give some ministry employee a job enforcing the law against flying carpets? They really weren't doing any harm, so far as Harry could see. Not like the vile books about the Dark Arts and other such things that the Gibsonites would ship if they were paid.

He forced his mind back to what Snape had said. "Why is a parselmouth at a Glassworks? I thought they talked to snakes." Harry asked.

"They do, Potter." Snape shook his head. "You obviously never studied in Binn's class, or you would know why he was at a Glass making concern. Well, perhaps you'll figure it out when you get there."

They had left the building, now. Harry turned for a moment to gaze at it. It was nearly identical to the building they had left in London, save that it was a little more worn, as if it were older, and the sign on it read "Perth Freight Portal" rather than "London Freight Portal". Then he looked about. They seemed to be in a magical manufacturing district as they had been in London, a little ways away he could see building with large signs that proclaimed "Murray Sand Sorting", "W'Naga's Cauldron Foundry", and "Smythe's Seed Depot". Similiar enough to what Harry had seen in London near the freight portal, but there were subtle differences. It seemed slightly cleaner on the whole, there was far less litter, and the cobbled road was in far better condition, with very few cracks or potholes. And the buildings themselves were constructed in a distinctly foreign way. There was not a single wood building so far as Harry could tell. Perhaps about half of them were constructed of every imaginable sort or glass, ranging from nearly ethereal sheets of transparent and frosted glass, to dark heavy chunks of glass that almost looked burnt, to colorful riots of stained glass that looked like something that would not be out of place at a carnival. Other structures were made of brick, metal, stone, and adobe, or various combinations thereof. And gazing farther down the block, Harry swore he could see a few buildings made of concrete blocks and sheet metal. Apparently these Gibsonite wizards did not share the English contempt for using modern muggle materials. In a way, Harry supposed, it made sense. At one time, centuries ago, brick, stone, and all the other materials Harry was familiar with from Diagon Alley and other wizarding communities in England had probably been newly invented by the muggles. Why make some arbitrary judgement and decide it was acceptable to use materials which had been around for 101 years, but not those which had only been around for only 99 years or less?

At the same time, though, he found it frightening. Both Snape and Dumbledore had spoken to him of the Gibsonite's pragmatism. The sight of those very Mugglish looking buildings drove the point home in a way no amount of mere speech could. Like nothing else, they convinced Harry that he was going to be dealing with a nearly alien people, with an alien way of thinking. They had been seperated from Enland for nearly 200 years now, and for all that time had been following their own divergent cultural path. A great deal could change in that time, Harry knew. He had learned from Professor Binns that the English language itself had changed to near incomprehensibility in less than that time, between the era of Chaucer and that of Shakespeare. It made life rather difficult for certain wizards, who had to learn Middle English in order to study various older magical texts.

The street was even busier than Brick Brack Alley in London had been, though Harry was not certain if that was because it was afternoon rather than pre-dawn here, or if the Gibsonites simply had a stronger and more vigourous economy, requiring more commerce, manufacturing, and transportation than that of England. He desperately hoped it was the first, but could not make himself believe it. Those posters he had seen in the London Freight Portal advertising all sorts of nasty things the Gibsonites were willing to ship for a high enough price spoke of a very greedy people interested in little but money.

There were numerous wizards hurrying down the road. Most of them wore either red, yellow, or blue robes. He did not think that all of the blue robed wizards could possibly be Apparators, so either the blue color signified something else that Harry was not aware of, or meant nothing at all. Some wizards were not wearing robes, but rather muggle clothes from every era. Barely a few yards in front of him a witch dressed in a linen dress in the style of ancient Egyptians was talking to a wizard wearing a suit that could have come directly from his Uncle Vernon's tailors.

Coming out of W'Naga's Cauldron Foundry was a dark skinned man wearing a loincloth, sandals, and nothing else at all. He was carrying a slim breifcase made out of black leather.

Harry choked, and almost had to whimper. It was, perhaps, fortunate for him that this was a fairly cool day for December, which was late spring in Australia. A small, but significant portion of the human and magical creature population would often wear nothing at all when the weather permitted. Among other things wrought by the cultural changes of the past two centuries there was a drastic reduction of the nudity taboo, and a complete elimination of any laws regarding what was commonly known as 'indecent exposure'. As the mere fact of someone being naked did not harm anyone else, it did not violate the law there, and the only course of action open to those who might be offended by it was to keep their eyes closed and their mouth shut.

Then Harry gasped. Coming down the road was a Goblin on a small flying carpet with a chest behind him, and a centaur trotting side by side with him. They both wore belts with obvious wands on them.

"They can't do that!" Harry said to Snape, not sure if he was outraged or astonished. "Goblins aren't permitted wands!"

"Goblins aren't permitted wands in England." Snape smirked as he corrected Harry. "And most other countries of the world. They are permitted to do so here. That particular question was settled nearly 200 years ago. Preventing Goblins or any other intelligent creature the use of wands would violate the Gibsonite's particular law and philosophy."

"Aren't they afraid of another Goblin rebellion?"

"Well, apparently they're not, Potter. What reason would the Goblins have to rebel, unless they are being treated unfairly? Which they're apparently not, here. Quite the contrary, they're doing quite well. They run a branch of Gringott's bank," Snape pointed a finger towards a crooked Grecian looking building on a hill about half a mile away. "And are getting rich doing it. As are the Gibsonites. The Goblins are willing to give them a lower interest rate on loans than they do everyone else in the world in return for their equal treatment."

"So in other words they just give the Goblins special priveleges because it lines their own pockets." Harry sniffed. The more he learned about them, the more the Gibsonites sounded like Slytherins to him.

Snape turned towards Harry, his lips twisting snidely "First of all, Potter, they are not giving the Goblins 'special priveleges', as you put it. They are simply giving them the same 'priveleges', if you choose to use that term, rather than a more accurate one, that they themselves have. And their reasons for doing so should not concern you, unless you are the sort of sentimental dunderhead who is more interested in motivations than results. Lining their pockets is admittedly a good reason for doing as they do. If you choose to believe that it's the only one, that's your business. But really, Potter, the only important question you really should be asking yourself is whether or not they are correct in their actions, and the results of them are beneficial to everyone concerned. Now, if you don't mind, we need to get going if we are going to meet up with DeVries on time.

Snape held out his arm once more, and as soon as Harry took it, he apparated away, off the street.

The trip was unpleasant, again the jarring, crushing apparating that Harry had become accustomed to. And yet that musical note which was still in him from the trip through the freight portal seemed to make the trip easier. It was such a strange sound, as if it came from some higher dimension that pinned together matter and energy with musical notes that occupied the space between them. He found himself humming again, then with an effort forced himself to stop, and take a look at where they had arrived.


	20. Chapter 20

Monday December 2, 1996. Early Afternoon. Gibson Glassworks Facility

Harry found himself standing with Snape on an Apparating Platform next to a large sign. Glowing magical letters on the sign proclaimed that it was the "Gibson Glassworks", first in English, then in Latin, then several other languages which Harry didn't know. There was a great deal of noise, the sounds of swearing, spellcasting, and large objects being moved about filled the air. There were several building which seemed to be little more than copper roofs supported by iron pillars. There were walls, but they had so many large sliding doors that were opened that they did little to seperate the interior of the building from the outdoors.

Harry followed Snape as he stepped off the Apparating Platform and entered. A smaller sign just inside advised them to 'Ring Bell for Assistance." There was a bell on a stand with a rope dangling from it, which Snape pulled. The bell clanged several times, and about a minute later a man came running up to them. He was the most peculiar looking wizard Harry could have imagined. He wore faded red robes that were mostly covered with a large apron made of dragonhide. Knowing the high price of Dragonhide, Harry knew that that apron cost quite a bit of money, yet the man did not seem to take very good care of it, as it was rather dirty and covered with scorch marks. He was also wearing dragonhide gloves, a hood of dragonhide, and goggles of magically darkened smoky quartz.

"What ken I do fer you then, mates?" the wizard asked, pushing back his hood. He had a mohawk haircut that was dyed a bright purple color.

Harry gaped at the wizard's peculiar clothes and haircut as Snape studiously ignored both and answered him, nearly shouting in order to be heard above the din of the glassworks. "We're looking for Andre DeVries! He's expecting us!"

"Oh, yeh. The Parselmouth. Yeh, today's his day here, mates. Up on the hill by the snakepit, he is. I spec he's almos' done then, right? You go on up." He gestured towards a hill about a hundred yards away where a bright orange glow was coming from, as if there were a fire somewhere on it. "Wait, though, you'll be wantin' these."

The wizard dashed into on of the nearby buildings and came out with two sets of smoky quartz goggles such as he was wearing. "Gets a bit bright up there, mates. Hot, too. But since you are just here to see him, you probably won't be here for long, so I 'spec you won't need an apron, right? A cooling charm'll do yer for just a few minutes or so."

Harry looked towards the hill with trepidition. He was not sure just how hot the wizard meant it got up there, and without his wand, and very little magic left in him, he could hardly cast a cooling spell. And he was damned if he would ask Snape to cast one for him. He took the goggles and followed Snape towards the hill. He took in the operation of the Glassworks as they moved past the various buildings. A slender trough filled with molten glass came down the hill and entered a large building. Harry assumed that they turned the glass into bottles, phials, and other things there, because he saw a wizard levitating about twenty of them out of the building, and into another one. There were other things going on at the other buildings. Harry saw one building with several bales of straw piled inside. From yet another building, a large flying carpet loaded with large crates emerged, and the wizard on it flew on past the sign at the entryway, and continued down the road, vanishing past a curve. Most of the wizards here seemed to be wearing either red or blue robes, and the color they wore was sorted by building. Harry passed a building where several wizards were transfiguring small plain-looking bottles into miniature jars, and they all wore blue robes. On the other hand, there was a building where several wizards were scourgifying thick sheets of iron, and they all wore red robes. It was all very strange. Harry wondered what it meant.

As they approached the hill where the wizard had said DeVries was, Harry began wondering again just what sort of job a parseltongue would do at a place like this. He decided to risk asking Snape once more.

"What did that wizard mean by a 'snake pit'?" Harry said. "You never did tell me. What do they want with snakes so badly that they've got to have a parselmouth down here to talk to them?"

Snape shook his head. "How do you think they melt the glass, Potter? With a muggle blast furnace? They use a rather dangerous creature found on this continent called a Firesnake."

"Oh." Harry started to understand. "Hagrid taught us about them. They're supposedly related to both Ashwinders, and fire salamanders. But they're hotter than both. Are they really hot enough to melt glass?"

"When there's enough of them, Potter, yes. But the trick is to convince enough of them to stay in one place long enough to do so. Left on their own, they'd rather crawl all over the place and set things on fire. So they need a Parselmouth to talk to them."

Harry said nothing, remembering what Hagrid had had to say about Firesnakes. The half-giant had said he actually had one once, several years ago, and kept it in a cauldron. But it had melted the cauldron and gotten away, nearly burning his cottage down in the process. Dumbledore had managed to catch the creature, and returned it to his native country, admonishing Hagrid not to attempt to keep such a thing again.

It was starting to get very hot and bright now, and as they got over the crest of the hill, Harry saw a man wearing a dragonhide apron, hood, and gloves kneeling down next to a large fiery pit. He was speaking to something that was so bright, it hurt Harry's eyes to look at it. He slipped on the goggles, and saw that it was a gorgeous, fiery snake, that was flicking out it's tongue and regarding the man with glowing, ruby eyes as he spoke to it, and several other snakes, that were milling around in a large pit filled with lava-like molten glass. Those must be the firesnakes, Harry realized. They were actually quite beautiful, for such dangerous creatures.

"So you blokes have to see," the man said to the firesnakes, as Harry approached, "You have a really sweet deal here. A nice warm home. All you have to eat. No dingoes or other nasties to chase you around or dig about in your nests. All you have to do is make sure that you stay down in your pit most of the time. You can come out and play occasionally, so long as you don't burn any wizards or buildings, but it's best if most of you stay here, and help melt the glass. And that's not hard, is it? You just have to sit there is all. So there's no need to wander off, or try to build nests down in Hexagon City. That would be bad, then someone might pour water on you. It's much better to sit here, and enjoy all the free food. See, I even brought you some."

The man opened a large sack next to him and began taking out several dead rats and mice. He lined them up next to the edge of the pit, and stepped hastily back as several of the burning snakes came out to devour them.

"Good food, good food." said one of the snakes. "We be good snakes and stay in the pit, for good wizard friend. We melt glass and get good food."

Just then Harry was startled by Snape speaking to him. "I take it that you understand him, Potter."

Harry realized then that the man had been speaking Parseltongue. He had barely even noticed the hissing tones under the words.

"Yes, is that DeVries?"

Snape nodded. DeVries finished up handing out the dead rodents, and making sure there were no holes in his dragonhide gloves, dared to stroke a few of them on the head. The snakes hissed their appreciation.

"Good friend wizard snake-talker." One of them said. "We be good snakes and stay here. You come back soon with more food for us."

"I'll be back in a week." DeVries promised. He got up, and turned to face Harry and Snape. For a moment he looked puzzled, then a broad grin split his face.

"Severus! What the hell are you doing down here, you bastard! Finally decide to quit the rat race up in England?"

Snape shook his head. "Hardly. I believe that Dumbledore told you we were coming."

"Yeah." DeVries grin faded away. "I owe him a favor. He wants me to take Potter to Wilson. Well, I'll do it. But I just owe him the one favor. You can tell him for me not to ask me for any more, ever."

Then DeVries looked at Harry, and switched to speaking in Parselmouth once again. "So, you must be Harry Potter. Pleasure to meet another Parselmouth like myself. What do you think of Gibson Territory?"

Harry did not want to say anything bad to DeVries, who seemed to be friendly enough. He answered him, making an effort to speak in Parseltongue, as he had been addressed. "Well, it's a lot different than England. I'm not quite sure I'm used to it yet."

"Oh, you'll like it well enough in a few weeks." Andre said, switching to English. "Best place in the whole world to be a wizard. Or even to be alive. But come on, lets get away from these snakes. They're nice enough chaps, but they can burn the skin right off a fellow, I tell you."

Harry followed DeVries and Snape back down the hill. As they got away from the heat of the snakepit, DeVries stripped off his dragonhide apron, revealing a bright yellow robe under it. It was knee-length, like most of the robes the Gibsonite wizards seemed to wear, and he had worn khaki pants underneath.

"Excuse me, Mr. DeVries," Harry's curiousity about the meaning of the different colors of robes finally got the best of him. "But how come different wizards here wear different colored robes. I've seen red, yellow, and blue robes here. Do they mean anything? Do they have to do with a person's job, I've noticed here that wizards in one building all seem to have the same colored robe. And you have the only yellow robe I've seen here. Why is that?"

"Oh, that." DeVries laughed. He pulled off his goggles and hood, revealing eyes bright with humor, sparkling as if at some private joke. Harry was a bit surprised by his appearance. The only other parselmouth he had ever met was Lord Voldemort himself. DeVries looked nothing like that. His skin was a bit dusky, and his hair was dark brown, nearly black, which Harry supposed could have been sinister. But he also had a slight scattering of grey in it, and a slightly heavy build. He looked like a middle-aged gypsy, who could have been selling trinkets or telling fortunes, rather than anything very sinister. "The colors have to do with their system of classification at Gibson Academy. You don't get sorted according to your personality like you do at Hogwarts. You get sorted according to what sort of magic you're best at. If you ask me, it's a much better system."

"But Snape said he knew you. That you went to Hogwarts. And you think this is better? How come?"

DeVries looked at Snape almost sadly for a moment. "Well, it's like this. I was in Slytherin. Surrounded by other Slytherins, who were there, because they shared the same attitudes and ideas I did. And we never associated with students from other houses if we could help it. The other houses were the same."

"The problem with that, is that if all the people around you think exactly the same way you do, you're not being exposed to any new ideas, and no-one is likely to tell you about any mistakes in your way of thinking, because they are all making precisely the same mistakes themselves. The end result is that whatever innate personality flaws you have to start with become progressively more exaggerated. The Slytherins at Hogwarts become more and more hateful of muggles. The Gryffindors become more and more foolhardy and arrogant. And so on."

"Anyway, about the colored robes. At Gibson Academy, they have a sorting ceremony where they put you on something called a 'Tri-balance'. It's like a giant golden scales with three arms instead of two. It weighs the magic in you, and decides which sort is strongest. Depending on what you are best at, you get put into one of three houses. Mercury, Mars, or Apollo. It's a bit complicated, but Mercury house wears blue robes, and you have wizards there who are good at things like Apparating, transfiguration, a few other things. Mars house wears red robes, and the wizards in it are good at charms, curses, and elemental magic. Apollo house wears yellow robes, and has wizards who are good at divination, aura reading, potions, herbology, arithmancy, and Parselmouths like myself."

"But you didn't go to Gibson." Harry pointed out.

"No, but I'm a Parselmouth, and a very good one." Andre pointed to a row of three pins on his robe which were inscribed with symbols meaningless to Harry, but which undoubtedly indicated that he was an expert at speaking to snakes. "So I wear the yellow robes. When I wear robes at all, and not other sorts of clothes. That way people know what sort of wizard I am."

"But what if you don't want to? What if you'd rather wear blue robes, or red?"

DeVries seemed a little puzzled by the question. "I'd look rather stupid, pretending to be something that I'm not. It'd be kind of like buying someone else's trophies and putting them on your mantle. Sooner or later you'd get found out, and then everyone would laugh at you. I suppose I might get away with wearing a blue robe. I've quite a talent for transfiguration. But it wouldn't make any sense. Telling people that I am better at Transfiguration than Parselspeech would not improve my talent for either one."

They had now reached a low table. Andre put his dragonhide apron and other protective garments on it. "Leave your goggles here, someone will be by in a bit to put them away."

Harry and Snape set their goggles down. "So, why did you come from England to Australia, to talk to snakes in a noisy place like this. I mean, this looks like, well,"

"A muggle factory?" Andre laughed. "You needn't be embarrassed to say it. It's quite true. You'll see a lot of things down here like that. You have to understand, that in order to survive down here, the Gibsonites have had to find magical ways to duplicate muggle industrial processes."

"But why do it at all? Why come here? Why not stay in England? You were born there."

Andre shook his head, and again gave Snape a rather sad look, which Harry found quite peculiar. "Because I'm better off down here than up there, Harry. England is dying. I'm Slytherin. I don't care to die with it."

"That's not true!" Harry said fiercely. Andre and Snape exchanged glances over his head.

"Wait till you're ten years older, Harry. Then tell me what you think." Then he gave Harry a broad grin. "Besides which, I'm getting paid more money for easier work than anything I'd be able to do in England. All I have to do is visit a few snake-pits every morning, chat the firesnakes up, give them a few bites to eat, and I get a ton of money for it. Then of course, there are the girls. The pretty Australian girls. I wouldn't want to give any of them up. I'm quite the romantic, as your professor could tell you."

Harry rolled his eyes. "According to what Professor Snape told me, I thought that the Gibsonites are into some kind of weird selective breeding. They want to have the smartest and best parents for their children. That doesn't sound really very romantic."

Andre frowned. "I never really thought of seperating the two concepts. I doubt if any Gibsonite does. Despite my being from England, I'm rather like the people here, in that I am attracted to the best and brightest women I can find. Whom also would be the best choice for having any children of mine. I can't really imagine being attracted to a woman who was stupid or weak. I think it would say something rather ugly about me as a person, if the only women I wanted were those who mindless and otherwise lacking in any decent qualities. Being romantically involved with someone like that would be a bit degrading, I should think."

Harry thought about this. It sounded very much like the Slytherin prejudice against marrying those of 'impure blood'. Except that he could not imagine the Slytherins caring much about 'romance' and the Gibsonite ideas of whom they wanted to marry were somewhat skewed from the Slytherin ideas. He recalled that Michael Von Richthoven said that he had married a muggle. What sort of qualities had she had to make her one of the 'best and brightest, so that she would attract what apparently had been one of the most important wizards in Gibson Territory? Certainly no Slytherin that Harry knew would ever have considered marrying a muggle, and he was rather surprised that a Gibsonite would, as they seemed so much like Slytherins in so many other ways. Or perhaps Richthoven was simply more deranged than the rest of the peculiar Gibsonites. Certainly he was quite demented now, and Harry had serious doubts about the sanity of someone who could be responsible for the merciless slaughter of people trying to surrender and escape, even if they were Death Eaters.

He recalled Snape stating that they had had a reason for doing so, to frighten the Death Eaters badly enough that they would never dare repeat their attack. And it had worked. Now he had to ask himself, the question that he had not wanted to before. If it were him doing the deciding, if the only way to keep his friends safe, to keep Ron, and Hermoine, and the Weasleys and everyone else he cared for safe, was to do the same thing as Richthoven, and kill Death Eaters who were no longer a threat, would he do it? He was very much afraid that he was. Did that say something bad about him, he wondered? He did not feel any more evil than he had a moment ago. Or did it merely say something bad about the world, that there were people in it who made such things necessary? He did not want to live in an evil world, any more than he wanted to be evil himself.

Lost in thought, Harry did not even notice that they had now come to the Apparation Platform, outside the gates.

"Come along." Andre said as he mounted the steps up it. "Snape, if you'll take Harry with one arm and me with the other, I'll guide our apparation to my home. The boy looks a bit peaked, and could probably use a decent dinner."

For some reason, Snape did not look at all pleased with this prospect, but did as he was told. There seemed to be some sort of problem between him and DeVries, but Harry did not understand what it was. He gestured impatiently towards Harry, and almost as soon as Harry had placed his hand on Snape's arm, they apparated away again.


	21. Chapter 21

Monday December 2, 1996. Mid Afternoon. Andre DeVries private residence.

Harry, Snape, and DeVries appeared on the now familiar Apparation Platforms. Unlike the ones Harry had seen so far, though, the one he now found himself on was quite ornate. Rather than being made of sterile-looking slabs of stone laid with greyish mortar and with nought but precisely scribed runes as decoration, the small apparating platform outside Andre Devries house was decorated with a green mosaic of malachite, green agates, and other semi precious stones arranged in a fanciful snake motif. The gems sparkled and shone in the bright afternoon sunlight, and Harry found himself admiring them. The luxurious construction of the platform brought to mind the fanciful, old fashioned wizarding world he was familiar with from Hogwarts and other places in England, rather than the sterile, modern ideas of craftsmanship that he had thus far associated with the Gibsonites. Completing the nearly faery-like structure was an 8 foot tall filigreed structure of antique bronze containing a small bell. A small sign near it instructed any visitors to ring the bell and wait to be escorted off the platform. Surrounding the circumferance of the platform was a small moat, complete with lily pads. An arched stone bridge that would not have been out of place in Hogwarts itself led over it onto a path that led to Andre's house.

"This must have cost a bloody fortune!" He said admiringly to DeVries, who just chuckled.

"I can afford it. The parselmouth business pays quite well here. And I like nice things. I see no reason not to have anything I want, so long as I can pay for it." He stepped onto the bridge, and suddenly the surface of the moat, which Harry had thought was purely decorative began to roil, and a thick column of dripping scales reared upwards from it.

And up, and up, and up, until looming nearly 6 feet taller than Harry's head was a serpent that seemed nearly as large as the basilisk that he had fought in his second year. Or at least that was the impression a frightened Harry got. The truth was it was actually far smaller, being a natural creature rather than a magical one. It was large enough though. Over 30 feet long.

Alarmed, Harry stumbled back involuntarily, bumping into Professor Snape, and nearly knocking him off the edge of the platform.

"Watch where you're going Potter!" Snape snarled, seeming not alarmed at all by the giant serpent.

"Don't be afraid, Harry." Andre said. "That's just Shantih. One of my numerous serpents that I keep around here."

"That's a bloody big snake!" Harry said. "For a moment I thought it was a basilisk. But I suppose if it were, we'd all be dead."

"No, Shantih's an anaconda." DeVries said. "They don't normally get quite this big, but I've done a bit of transfiguration work on her. She spends a lot of time coiled around the platform here. If anyone comes who doesn't want to ring the bell like a proper polite visitor, she coils around them and keeps them in one spot until I can come sort them out. Saved my life more than once..."

"Down, Shantih," Andre hissed in Parselmouth. As the snake obeyed, sinking most of her length back into the moat, he reached out and patted her on the head. "Had a werewolf try and attack me once, a long time ago. I think it worked for you-know-who. The local werewolves wouldn't pull a stunt like that. Well, Shanti here wrapped around him and kept him from going anywhere. Strong creatures, snakes. Pound for pound they're about the strongest thing there is. Not being made out of silver, Shantih couldn't kill him, of course. But the werewolf couldn't unwrap Shanti from around himself either. And his teeth and claws didn't do him much good when he couldn't move."

"So what happened?" Harry said, rather interested in the story. He had never heard of fighting a werewolf with anything other than silver. The Gibsonites seemed to have some eccentric, yet very effective ways of dealing with certain things that could be extremely useful.

"Oh," DeVries waved his hand vaguely, leading Harry and Snape towards his house. "I came out to see what all the noise was about. I didn't really want to deal with a hungry werewolf, so I just told Shantih to stay wrapped around him until morning, when he changed back. Then I asked him some questions, but I didn't much like his answers. So I had some Justicars pick him up. They poured veritaserum down his throat, and asked him some questions. Turned out he was from Durmstrang, but a sympathizer with you-know-who. Apparently he felt that it wasn't appropriate for a parselmouth to 'waste' his talents making money instead of joining you-know-who and telling snakes to go around attacking people. So he came here to try and kill me."

"What did the Justicars do to him?" Harry asked.

"Oh. Well in Gibson, the specified penalty for murder or attempted murder is to become the property either of your would-be victim, or his heirs, if the attempt succeeded. So the Justicars gave him back to me. I didn't have much use for him. I suppose I could have fed him to Shantih, but she probably would have gotten a bellyache. And selling him as slave labor was more trouble than it was worth. So I gave him to the Jean Grenoir society. I imagine they probably tore him to peices."

Tore him to peices? Harry shuddered. That did not sound at all good, despite what the werewolf had tried to do. "What's the Jean Grenoir society?" He asked.

"You don't know what that is?" DeVries seemed a little surprised. "I forget, you're not a Gibson. The Jean Grenoir society is sort of a union for werewolves here. They charge dues, and provide certain benefits for their members, like making bulk purchases of wolfsbane potion, and operate warded off hunting preserves full of game for those members who prefer to hunt. They also arrange certain employment opportunities unique to werewolves."

Harry frowned at this. "What sort of job would someone want a werewolf for? Forgive me for asking, but in England, it's nearly impossible for werewolves to get any sort of job at all. People are afraid of them."

"Hmm. People are fools. There's no such thing as perfect safety. So long a werewolf takes care to either isolate themselves or take the Wolfsbane potion, they're fine. And when they're on Wolfsbane potion, if they play their cards right, they can get quite a lot of money." He tapped his nose. "It's their noses. They got a sniffer like a bloodhound. The Justicars will pay a lot to get a pack of werewolves on wolfsbane. They can sniff out a criminal almost every time. If they catch the right criminals, they can earn enough percentage on the bounties in only two or three nights of work every month that they don't have to work at all for the rest of the month if they don't want to."

"And you say that these union werewolves ripped apart the one who attacked you?" Harry said. "I'm surprised they didn't protect him."

"Oh, hell, that's the last thing they'd do." Andre snorted. "They got a sweet deal here. Better than anywhere else in the world. The last thing in the world they'd want is a werewolf who's irresponsible or criminal giving the rest of them a bad reputation. They police themselves quite strictly, believe me."

By now they had approached Andre's house which, although not as ornate as his Apparating platform, was comfortingly old fashioned. Harry could almost imagine the Weasleys living in such a house, were they to emigrate here. Several bushy trees surrounded it, no doubt to shade it from a sun that could be all too harsh at these latitudes. The walls were made of thick, curved adobe, set with countless windows of stained glass. The latter seemed to be enchanted, just as the pictures were at Hogwarts, as Harry could vaguely see movement in them. But from this angle he could not see what they depicted, merely that they were quite large and colorful. One one side of the house was a gaily striped green and silver awning with a large, cherry red flying carpet resting beneath it, and behind the house Harry could see a large white watertank standing on high legs. Off to one side, Harry saw three young children playing a game that seemed to involve tossing a large ball around a smooth feild with several polished granite stones, approximately the size of their heads, and carved in the form of the six Platonic solids. Andre whistled at them, and they looked up and waved back, shouting excited greetings to their father.

The large anaconda, Shantih, had followed them all the way from the moat, as if to make sure that the two strangers meant no harm to his master. Now DeVries gazed intently at the serpent for a long moment, and it turned and slithered back towards the water.

"Err, did you just tell her to leave?" Harry said curiously. "I didn't hear you talk to her."

"Oh, that's right. You are a Parselmouth like me. Dumbledore mentioned that. Well, you must realize that the Parselmouth ability is actually mainly telepathic in nature. Speaking out loud is not, strictly speaking, necessary."

"It isn't?" Harry tried to digest this. "I've always had to. And so has Voldemort."

"Well, you-know-who was always a great fool. But think about it, Harry. Snakes are deaf-mutes. They don't have eardrums, or vocal cords. What you think you speak and hear aloud to a snake is actually entirely in your mind. Your voice and ears a just the mechanism you use to utilize that ability. But with enough practice, you no longer need them."

"Oh, like silent magic!" Harry smiled brightly as he comprehended. "I'm not much good at that, though. I'm surprised that Voldemort still needs to talk out loud to his snakes, though. He's good at silent magic."

"I doubt Voldemort is capable of understanding that it's not necessary." Andre said. "He is blind in many ways. To him, a snake is a weapon of terror, not an animal. As such he concentrates on little other than telling it to spy on people or attack them. Certain not on their anatomy and senses."

They entered Andre's house, and Harry found himself in a large, spacious living room. Now that he was inside the house, he could see the moving pictures on two of the magical stained glass windows that were set into the wall. One of them showed a picture of the three fates, Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, whose magically animated images were busily spinning, measuring, and cutting threads, respectively. The other showed an adorably cute koala bear clambering around a tree and plucking glass leaves which it stuffed into it's pink glass mouth. The two multicolored windows cast cool, rainbow light around the large room which had several green velvet sofas scattered around in a vague semi-circle facing the lit fireplace. There was a boy sitting on one of them idly levitating a small marble with a wand. A peice of parchment lay on a low table near him.

"Ah, Wilhelm." Andre said. "Did you do well at your lessons this morning?"

The boy jumped up, smiling. "Yes, papa!"

"Let me see." Andre picked up the parchment and scanned it briefly. "This all looks good, especially the part where you compared Roman numerals to traditional runes. You'll be ahead of the game when you go to Gibson Academy next year. Now go run out and see if you can find a couple of the taipans. There's been a dingo sniffing around lately, see if they can bite him. Shantih can eat him if they do, it'll save buying another sheep for her."

The boy ran out of the house, and Harry heard some sibilant hissing, and some words about how any good snakes that wanted some rats should come on over, before the thick door slammed shut and cut off the rest of what Wilhelm was saying.

"Sit down, Harry." Andre urged. "You've probably had a tiring day, coming all the way out here from England."

Harry was happy to obey. He was glad that the time here was eight or so hours ahead of England, it hopefully meant that he would get to bed, earlier. He had not gotten any sleep in... he was not sure how long it had been. Nearly two days. Since he had been knocked unconscious during Richthoven's fight with Voldemort. Far too long. It seemed like nearly an eternity.

Harry sat back in a comfortable green couch. The change in position brought back the ringing in his head, however. He raised one hand to his temple, trying to rub the noise away.

"Are you alright, Harry?" DeVries asked, concern written on his face.

"I'm fine." Harry said. "It's just this funny noise I've got in my head, ever since we came here through the freight portal. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but it's kind of weird. I can't seem to get rid of it."

"Ah." Andre nodded knowing. "A lot of people get that, first time they get apparated by a Gibsonite. Nothing to worry about."

"What causes it?" Harry said. "The trip was alright, it was actually easier than any other time I apparated. But the noise is so weird."

"I'm not sure." DeVries shrugged as he sat down. "My understanding is that the Apparators here approach apparating a little bit differently then they do elsewhere. They claim that they don't apparate objects so much as they apparate the space that the objects occupy. I asked them about it once, and got a horribly complicated explanation that I couldn't begin to understand. All I got out of it was that apparently what we regard as distance between objects is not necessarily fixed, and very much a product of our own point of view, and also that what we would normally regard as empty space is not at all empty, but actually something in itself, containing potential for many things, such as the ability to contain matter and energy, and the laws of magic and physics. The apparators compare it to the spaces on a chessboard. You have to have a space on a chessboard in order for a chess peice to be placed. You can't just place it anywhere, where there is no chessboard space to put it."

"Anyway, the upshot of all this, is that the first time you get apparated by one of our Guild members, the new experience tends to affect your senses for a while. Make you more sensitive to space and the other dimensions around you. It's nothing to worry about, although you might have strange dreams for a few nights. Some seers swear by being apparated through one of our freight portals to give them more accurate prophecies." he chuckled, showing how little he thought of that idea, and after a moment, Harry joined him. He could just imagine Professor Trelawney going through a freight portal and then predicting the death of one of the Apparators who had sent her. And what the response of those rough wizards was likely to be.

"But where are my manners?" Andre looked over at Snape, who was sitting stiffly in what looked like the least comfortable chair in the room. "Let me get you something, Severus."

He got up, took a large jug of wine from a table by the wall, and poured a glass of thick liquid so red that it was nearly black. He handed it to Snape. The potions master sniffed at the glass, and apparently liked it somewhat, because Harry actually saw a small smile on his face as he sipped at it.

Just then a woman wearing a short, green silk tunic came in.

"Susan!" Andre smiled broadly at her, and greeted here with a long, passionate kiss, making Harry flush. "Harry, this is my wife, Susan. Sue, this is Harry Potter. He's come from England. He'll be staying with us for the night."

DeVrie's wife smiled at him in a way that made Harry feel uncomfortably warm. "I'm quite pleased to meet you, Harry."

"Go get us some hot mochk." Andre said. "Make it nice and thick. Harry needs something to tide him over until supper. He's a growing boy."

"I'll heat it right up, Andre." Susan said. "It'll be maybe about 10 minutes."

"Excellent." Andre waited until she had left the room, then looked at Harry intently for several seconds.

"So." He finally said. "Dumbledore said that I need to send you off to Wilson. Because she's the only one who can protect you from Richthoven. The Apparator. That's all a bad business, that is. I haven't heard word of Richthoven in a very long time, and I had hoped to have never heard of it again. Not after what he's become. He's nothing like the man I knew once."

"You knew Richthoven?" Harry said. "What do you know about him."

Andre didn't say anything for a very long time. He got up and paced, then turned back to Harry.

"Michael Von Richthoven. Also known as Richthoven the Apparator. Also known as Richthoven the Torturer, Richthoven the Flayer, and Richthoven the Unholy." He gave Harry a small, apologetic smile. "As you can see, we think quite a lot of him. Though he was not always like the... thing you met. Time was he was my friend. It was him that got me out of England, you know. He and a few other Gibsons talked me into coming here, rather than joining you-know who. Best decision of my life. Of course, that was before he went crazy. We don't like to think about that, down here, you know. About the things that he does now. We read about people being tortured, or hear about it. And we know it's him. But we still don't like to think or talk about it. It's almost unbearable, a man like that, being reduced to what he is now."

Harry opened his mouth, then noticed Snape looking sharply at him over the rim of his wine glass. He remembered the professor's warning not to discuss what had become of Richthoven's wife. "A man like what? What was he like?"

"He was a prince." Andre smiled. "Well, not literally, of course. But probably the closest thing to nobility that we ever had. The Apparators are the best people here, you know. Gibson Academy itself started out as an apparator's school, 200 years ago. And Richthoven was the best of the Apparators. Incredible, the things he could do. The youngest wizard ever to become head of the Apparators guild. He was a hero. He led the other Apparators to destroy the Death Eaters when they attacked the academy."

"I saw that." Harry said. "Dumbldedore had a memory of it, that he showed me in a pensieve. It was pretty disgusting. They killed people who were trying to get away, and surrender. That wasn't right."

Andre shrugged. "They did what they had to do. And it was effective. What would you have had them do? Turn them over to your English aurors?"

"Well, that would have been more fair. They could have gotten a fair trial."

DeVries gave a Snape-worthy sneer. "A fair trial that would have resulted in half of them escaping or being given a slap on the wrist, and the other half having their soul sucked out by Dementors. Neither one would appropriate. Particularly the latter."

"I've heard that about you Gibsonites," Harry said. "That you don't like Dementors. But don't you think that some people deserve it, especially murderers like the Death Eaters? After all, they did attack your school and try to kill helpless little kids."

"That's true, they did." DeVries said. "But the problem with what you propose is that the things the death eaters do, murder, torture, and rape, as horrible as they are, are ultimately, crimes that are limited, or finite in nature. What you propose, feeding people's souls to the dementors is an infinite punishment, the denial of an eternal afterlife. The application of an infinite punishment for a finite crime is entirely inappropriate. And what if the murderer is sorry? Or might be sorry someday?"

"Some people are never going to be sorry." Harry said. "They laugh about killing and torturing people. You don't live in England, you haven't seen the Death Eaters. I have. They'll never be sorry."

Andre stopped pacing, and stared into the flickering flames in his fireplace for several long moments. He looked at Snape for a while, who did not seem to want to face him, then looked back at the fire, as if gazing at an infernal vision only he could see. When he turned back to face Harry, there were tears glistening in his eyes.

"How do you know, Potter? Are you a God?"

"No." Harry said in a small voice, not sure how to take tears in an adult man.

"Then how do you know? Not being a God, Harry, you lack the two requisite qualities that would give you a right to destroy someone else's soul. Namely omniscience, and infallibility." He pointed at Harry. "All you see, when you would condemn someone to the Dementors, is someone who is cruel and frightening, now. But how do you know what will eventually happen? When they die, and are in a hell of their own making for a thousand years, or ten thousand, then how do you know that they might not see? Might not repent?"

"I don't know." Harry said. "I never really thought about it that way."

Andre shook his head. "That's the whole trouble with English wizards. They never think about what should be obvious. You're a wizard Harry. As such, you can see ghosts. So you KNOW people have immortal souls. You have PROOF, right in front of your eyes. Every wizard does. Yet what do the English wizards do? They completely ignore the evidence of their senses, and do things like trying to make themselves immortal. Like you-know who. Which has got to be the stupidest thing I ever heard of. He is not going to live forever in this world, regardless of what he thinks, since for among other reasons, in several billion years the sun is going to explode. Long before that time, natural evolution of other species will have rendered him about as relevent as a dinosaur."

"As for me," DeVries continued, "I prefer to eventually be safe in heaven enjoying eternal life, rather than enduring some protracted but finite existence on Earth, where I will first be obsolete, and then get to witness the sun turning into a red giant. Every Gibsonite does. It's one reason why we don't permit dementors here. Their use is not only unjust, but dangerous. One single slip in controlling them, and the next thing you know, they've gone off and sucked out some innocent person's soul, destroying life eternal for them. I can't think of any crime so horrible, any revenge I would want so badly, that I would risk having such a thing as a dementor anywhere near me, if there were as little as 1 one-millionth of a chance they would get loose and destroy my own soul, my own chance for immortality."

"Think, Harry." he told the boy. "Once you die, you'll be re-united in heaven with everyone who may have been murdered on Earth. In a thousand years, you'll likely no longer care about how they died. In ten thousand years, you'll likely have completely forgotten about it. But what you will never forget about, I can promise you, is if you ever fed another person's soul to the Dementors. Denied another human soul their chance at eternity and redemption. The guilt of such an act will be with you forever, I promise you. The very knowledge of it will poison your entire existence in eternity. Which, to my mind, is a good working definition of Hell itself."

Harry's mind whirled. "I don't know. I can't just forget about the things that Voldemort and his followers have done. They killed my parents. And my friends."

"Then don't forget it." Andre said. "Never do that. But don't give them to the Dementors, either. You'll damn yourself along with them."

DeVries shook his head. "But enough of that. I don't even like talking about Dementors. Here, let me show you a memory of mine. Perhaps it will help you to understand Richthoven a bit better. To see why everyone here used to look up to him."

He went over to a small copper and glass shelf that was in one corner of the room and removed a small pensieve. Then he took his wand and began removing a memory from his head, wrapping the silver thought stuff around his wand.

"This is a speech Richthoven made." Andre explained. "Shortly after the Death Eaters destroyed Gibson Academy. Everyone here was feeling pretty dismal about it. But he straightened us all out. I was there. It was amazing, really. You'll see."

He finished putting the silvery thoughts into the pensieve. "You should look at this too, Severus. I think it will do you good."

Harry was puzzled by what could ever do Snape any good, but said nothing. He waited as the Potion's master finished draining his glass of dark wine, and then joined them by the Pensieve. As soon as they were ready, all three of them joined hands and an excited, yet fearful Harry plunged into DeVries memories of a time over 15 years in the past.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22. Monday December 2, 1996. Somewhen in the past

Harry found himself whirling through the silvery thought-stuff in Andre DeVrie's pensieve. Then he found himself with Snape and DeVries, standing in the middle of a huge crowd. They were facing a large Apparating platform that had been gaily decorated with red, yellow, and blue striped fabric. On one end were two flagpoles, one with three triangles, red, yellow, and blue arranged in a circular fashion, the other with several stars on a feild of midnight blue.

Beyond the decorated Apparating platform were the multi-colored ruins of what once had been four large building made of glass and steel. The bright sunlight reflected off multi-colored glass, and cast rainbows around the crow.

"Where are we?" He asked Andre.

"Gibson Academy. Or what was left of it, after the Death Eaters levelled the place."

Harry stood on his tiptoes to gaze over the shoulders of the people in front of him, and recognnized them from the memory of the Death Eater Dumbledore had shown him. He shuddered. It must have taken hundreds of destructive spells, on a level he could barely conceive of, to wreck a building this thoroughly. The place looked like it had been run over by dozens of muggle bulldozers. And it had been pointless. The students had gotten away. The only thing the Death Eaters had accomplished by wasting time wrecking a school they did not realize was empty was to give Richthoven and his Apparators time to come and deal with them.

Looking at the crowd, Harry saw sorrow on many of the faces, as they gazed at what remained of their school. Perhaps the destruction had caused more harm than he thought. It was obvious that the Gibsonites were just as proud of their school as he was of Hogwarts.

A tap on his shoulder jarred him from his thoughts.

"Look, there I am over there, Harry." DeVries said, pointing towards a man a few rows away. "That was me, about 15 years ago. Let's go stand there, we'll be able to see better."

The younger DeVries did not look that much different than he did now. At least not from a distance. He was wearing a green velvet vest with an ivory colored silk shirt, and loose black pants. A large rattlesnake was wrapped around his throat, buzzing it's tail angrily whenever anyone else got too close. Which explained why they could see better from this spot, no-one dared get too close to the younger Andre, to block his view.

Approaching more closely, Harry changed his mind, and decided that the younger DeVries had, after all, changed greatly in the past 15 years. There was a pinched sort of expression on his face which reminded him of Draco Malfoy. Or of his father, or of Snape, for that matter. The younger DeVries was far more Slytherinish, Harry decided, than his older self. He chewed on his lip, thinking about this. The older DeVries did not look like a Gryffindor, or Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff. Yet the adults Harry had met in England all seemed to retain forever those traits impressed on them by whatever house in Hogwarts they had been in. Remus, Sirius, and even Peter Pettigrew, despite being in their thirties, did not act much different than they had at 17, as seventh year Gryffindors. But there was some undefinable quality to the face of the older DeVries, absent in the younger one, that did not belong to any of the houses. An expression Harry had seen before, though, for it was often on Dumbledore's face. And less often on Remus's face, though never on the face of his beloved, dead Godfather, Sirius.

DeVries grew up. The thought came unbidden into Harry's mind, and he pushed it away, frightened by the implications. Because he had seen that same expression on Snape's face, though not very often, and not when Snape was aware he was watching. He could not accept that Snape could have changed from the immature child he once had been, had gained some kind of morality, when very few others in England, including his Godfather, and, he had to admit, himself, had been unable to.

There is something very wrong in Hogwarts. Another unwanted thought came into Harry's head. Something that keeps us at the level of frightened, squabbling children, even when we have the power of adult wizards. The sorting hat tried to warn us about it. It told us that it was wrong for us to be seperated, and perhaps it is. Can a child who is cut in four peices ever grow up? We may despise the traits of the other houses, but without those traits, I think perhaps we are all incomplete.

He recalled that DeVries had told him as much, that the sorting done in Gibson was such that students of vastly different personalities and backgrounds were in close quarters, and could learn from eachother. He did not have time to think the matter over, though, because DeVries nudged him again.

"That's him, coming onto the platform now. That's Richthoven." A blue robed wizard with a bandaged arm was ascending onto the platform, behind a wizard in red. He had not only blue robes, but a tall pointed blue hat decorated with stars, and a long blue cape. Obviously he was dressed formally for this occasion. A wide smile split the face of the younger DeVries as he watched Richthoven stand in front of the audience, and Harry saw for the first time, the hints of the nicer sort of man the parselmouth would eventually become.

The red robed wizard cast a sonorous spell on his wand, and made a short speech about the heroism of Michael Von Richthoven, and how the bravery of him and his apparators had saved the lives of so many people, and delivered a well deserved punishment to their treacherous enemies. Then he opened a small golden box and took out a blue medal, shaped like an irregular cross, and with tiny golden stars on it.

"For all you have done, Master Richthoven," The red robed wizard said, "It is my honor to present to you Gibson's highest honor, the Order of the Southern Cross."

Richthoven lowered his head, letting the red-robed wizard place the medal around his neck. Then he stood tall, gazing at the crowd with eyes luminous with pride and a brilliant, hopeful intelligence. Harry gasped in spite of himself. Here was a wizard who, not even 25 years of age, was, by the look of him, possessed of a magical power and mind that was on par with that of Voldemort, or even Dumbledore himself. What would he have become, Harry wondered, had he not been shattered and cursed by what the Death Eaters did only a short while later to his wife?

The crowd was clamoring, and Richthoven cast a sonorous spell on his own wand, to give them the speech they obviously wanted.

"I thank you for this honor." He said. "Though I hardly deserve it. Many other Apparators, far better men than I, died defending our children from the Death Eaters. This medal belongs far more to them, than to me. It is only on their behalf that I accept it, and in their memory that I wear it."

The crowd went quiet, thinking of the terrible loss they had sustained. Richthoven did not let them remain quiet for long.

"Listen to me!" he spoke sharply. "I know that we have sustained terrible losses. Our apparator's guild has been decimated, the best of my men have been killed. Our magical school, the Gibson Academy, the crowning jewel of our country, has been reduced to the pile of rubble you see behind me. I have seen you looking at it, and I have seen the despair in your eyes."

"But I tell you, not to despair! If you give up, if you think only of what we have lost, it is only then, that the Death Eaters have won. That is not what the men who died, many of whom were my friends, would have wanted. Think rather of what we have won. What their sacrifice gave us. It is true that many apparators died. But they died saving our future. Our children! Not one of the students at Gibson Academy was harmed. It is they, who in a few more years, will become the new apparators and other wizards we need."

"As for the destruction of this school," He waved his hands at the twisted, broken glass and metal behind him. "What of it? What was the school itself, but glass and metal? It is of far less value than the least of the students who attended it, and those students are safe."

"We can REBUILD!" Richthoven roared. "Our ancestors came to this place with nothing! They died, many of them, rather than give in to the perversions that fill the rest of the world. With their own hands, with nothing but hope, they dug out the sand of the desert, and melted it into the first glass, to build this school. We have learned much since then, and have so much more than they do. With our own hands, I tell you, we can rebuild this school, larger than before!"

"My fellow apparators died, to gain our safety from the terrible death eaters! We have frightened them so badly, that they will not dare to ever return here! But I say, that is not enough! I say, rebuild Gibson Academy, in time for the next school year, and we will not only have frightened the Death Eaters, but have spit in their eye. We will show them that there is NOTHING they can do to a free people such as us."

Now it was the crowd's turn to roar. Richthoven let the applause simmer down, before speaking again.

"We have always been a forward-thinking people! Our ancestors came here because they had a vision of the future. A vision where they would be free of the oppression and Dementors that suck the life from the rest of the world. We have always known what is important. Our children are important, and they have been saved. And I tell you now, that is not the only thing that has been saved."

He leaned forwards, lowering his voice, slightly. "I am sure that most of you know of the Lunar Spur project, I and my fellow Apparators were working on. Our efforts to extend the floo network to the moon itself, and provide cheap, convenient transportation to Earth's sister, to any wizard who wished it. Most of the wizards who were working on this project were among those killed. But I am still alive. And I know every bit of arithmancy needed to complete the project. All I need are the apparators to help me. And ten years from now, the children we saved will be those Apparators. We will complete the project, and that is not all! According to arithmantic theory, there should be a way to vastly increase the distance an object can be apparated, by using properly directed muggle electricity. This is not a thing that can be done now, but I tell you, that someday, when both muggles and wizards have grown up enough to work together without fear, it will be done. And if you rebuild Gibson Academy today, then centuries from now, our children, and the children of the muggles will walk hand in hand under the light of another star!"

The applause that broke out then made that which Harry had heard at the world Quidditch cup sound positively anemic. He stared, boggle-eyed at the blue-robed Richthoven.

"He's mad!" Harry finally burst out. "Apparate to the stars? Do you have any idea how far away they are? There's no way to do that. He's absolutely bonkers!"

Snape, who had been watching the speech with an intent expression, which turned to a sneer as he faced Harry. "Mad, Potter? That's not madness. I've seen madness countless times, and that's not it."

"Well, what is it then?" Harry demanded.

"Genius." Snape gave Richthoven an admiring a look as Harry had ever seen him give to anyone.

"Genius? What do you mean by that? You think that he can actually do that? Make a floo network to the moon? Apparate to the stars?"

"I think he means precisely what he said, Potter." Snape said silkily. "Or he would not have said it. Your problem is that you assume the entire world is as incompetent as you are."

DeVries watched this exchange, rather bemused. "Doesn't matter if it's true or not. I think it might have been, but it doesn't matter. It was less than a month after that, that he went mad. If there was a way to do as he said, it was lost when that happened. But, wait, this is about where the memory ends."

The scene turned black and Richthoven descended the platform, amidst countless cheers, and Harry found himself back in the Andre DeVrie's living room with his Professor and the Parselmouth.

"Anyway," DeVries said, as he took his memories back out of the pensieve. "Even if he never was able to help in building that floo network to the moon, his speech about it did accomplish one thing. Turned out literally thousands of volunteers to help rebuild Gibson Academy. They built it twice the size it had been before, and they did it in less than three months. Of course, Richthoven was in no shape to appreciate it. By that time, he had been confined to an insane asylum."

Harry thought about this. "What exactly happened, do you know?" Harry knew what had happened, but he wanted to hear DeVrie's version of it."

"It was horrible." Andre shuddered. "A whole pack of Death Eaters came back here, looking for revenge on Richthoven. They got him alone, somehow, when he was working inside the floo network. Then they cast some nasty curses on the floo network to close down all the fireplaces, so no-one could get in to help. They tortured him for three straight days. The screams were horrible."

"Err, you could hear it? From the floo network?" Harry said.

DeVries nodded. "It was one of the curses, they cast. No-one could get in through their fireplaces, to rescue Richthoven but sound could get out. The sick bastards WANTED everyone to hear it. They kept torturing him and asking him the same thing. Over and over. 'Where is it, Richthoven? Where is it?' He wouldn't tell them, at first. They had to crucio him for three days."

His eyes looked haunted. "It seems like almost yesterday. I had to stuff a mattress into my fireplace, to block out the screaming. Even that didn't work very well. Finally he agreed to tell them where it was. Whatever it was. I don't know what it was, because as soon as he agreed, the Death Eaters cut the sound out. So no-one else could find out, I guess. But whatever it was they wanted from him, it must have been something truly dreadful. Because it was after that, that he went crazy, and killed his own wife."

Devries looked suddenly several years older. "He should have been executed, of course. But we couldn't bring ourselves to do it. To kill a man like the one he had once been. Even though there was nothing left of him, worthwhile. So we just locked the poor bastard up in an insane asylum, and tried to forget about him. Only he wouldn't let us forget. He got out. And he's been torturing people ever since. No-one else in the world seems to see a pattern to the things he's doing, but we know. And we can't forget. And now, you say, he's come back. God damn it to hell. Perhaps we should have killed him, as justice demanded. It would have been better."

"Umm, do you really think so?" Harry said. "How come?"

"Because," DeVries sighed. "It's nearly unbearable to think that a man like the one in the memory I showed you, the best man I ever met, could become the sort of monster that he did. It would have been better for him to have died, so we could at least remember him as he was. Not as he became."

Harry nodded, understanding, despite himself. It was hard for him to reconcile the three images he had seen of Richthoven, the cold-blooded killer slaughtering death eaters in the memory Dumbledore had shown him, the luminous eyed hero from DeVrie's memories, and the haunted, inhuman monster who had dragged him to some horrible lair for a purpose Harry still could not fathom. Was it madness on the part of Richthoven or the world? Or was he merely far more complex than Harry could understand. He remembered what he had been told once, that the world was not neatly divided into good people and Death Eaters. But he was not sure he wanted to live in a world where so many people could be good, and evil, and otherwise unfathomable by turns. It was confusing, and made him afraid that but for the grace of whatever Gods there were, he himself could just as well go down the same path as either Voldemort or Richthoven.

Thinking of the mad apparator caused that strange note to sound in his head once more. Andre looked at him with concern. "Do you want to lie down before supper, Harry? Oh, wait, here's my wife with the mochk. Have a bit of that, perhaps it'll sort you out."

Harry looked up and was surprised to see a different woman than DeVries had identified as his wife a few minutes earlier. This woman had black hair and wore a short, ivory colored robe trimmed with lace and pearls. Harry blinked at her for a moment.

"Umm, you look different. Are you a metamorphomage?"

DeVries burst out laughing. "No, this is one of my other wives, Evelyn. I'm not sure where my third one is."

"Jennifer's in the study working on that Arithmantic theory of hers. We won't see her out for hours." Evelyn laughed, apparently amused by Harry's discomforture. She handed him a large mug of something thick and brown that steamed.

"You have three wives?" Harry said, too stunned to drink from the mug. He noticed Snape, the git, looking at him with an amused sneer.

"I like women." DeVries shrugged, as he took a large gulp of his own mochk. "I told you, I really can't give any of them up. And I liked all three of them so much, I married them all. One of the best decisions of my life."

Harry's hand trembled, and he set the mug down before he dropped it. "I don't think I need anything right now. Maybe I just better go lie down until supper time."

"Right." Evelyn had dabbed a fingerful of mochk onto DeVrie's neck, and was licking it off, making him chuckle, and swat her away affectionately. "You're shameless, woman. Harry, you go down the hall there, the last two rooms on the left have been made up for you and Severus. They're both pretty much the same, so take either one you like. Get yourself rested before supper, so you have a good appetite. I think I'll make up my special shrimp curry, and you don't want to miss that."

Harry nodded dumbly, not daring to open his mouth, the way his stomach was lurching. He was completely sickened at the sort of person DeVries had turned out to be, and stumbled as quickly as he dared down the hallway.

Snape had been sipping on his Mochk, which was a slightly sweetened and highly spiced chocolate drink, enjoying Harry's embarrassed and immature reaction to his discovery of DeVries living arrangements. He set it down as Harry left.

"Potter seems ill." He said to DeVries. "I'd best go see to him, Dumbledore would not be pleased if I failed see to his continued good health."

"I hope he'll be alright." DeVries said. "It would be a bloody shame for him to miss my shrimp curry and the other foods my wives are making for him. He probably won't get another chance for a long time to taste Gibson cuisine."

"Well, Potter has never been grateful for anything." Snape said. "Including the trouble others go for him. I myself have saved his life on numerous occasions, and he has yet to thank me."

"Typical Gryffindor brat." DeVries shook his head. "Always needing a nanny. Of course, you and I weren't much better at that age. Go make sure he's alright. Then do come back out. We have some catching up to do, and I know you'll enjoy another glass or two of that wine."

Snape nodded curtly and headed down the hallway after Harry. Why must the boy always act like the Gryffindor fool he was and force Snape to get him out of trouble?


End file.
